UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Gl  FT    OF 


The  Misty  Day 

Poems 

by 
LENORE   CROUDACE 

SAN  FRANCISCO 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1907,  by  IGNORE  CROUDACK, 
in  the  office  of  the  librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


Published  by  J.  R.  I,AFONTAINE,  San  Francisco,  Calif. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE   MISTY  DAY 5 

THE  DROP  OF  BLOOD  IN  THE  HEART          ....  8 

THE  ASP 10 

UNADORNED 13 

TEN  SONNETS 16—25 

THE   WAIL   OF   THE  TRANSPORTS 26 

LIGHTS  OF  ST.  VINCENT'S 29 

BETRAYAL  IN  VAIN 32 

THE  ACTOR'S  L/ESSON 34 

THE  OCEAN'S  REPLY 45 

SAN  FRANCISCO  DESTROYED .47 

FREEDOM  ONCE  MORE   .  51 

IN  HUMILITY'S  VALE  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .         .53 

PLANTING  THE  FLAG 55 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  INFANT  DEAD 58 

THE  WELCOME  OF  THE  FLOWERS          .        .        ...     61 

COWARDICE   AND  COURAGE          .        .         .         .         .         .         65 

SENTIMENT        .....         .  .  68 

FROM   BEYOND  THE   TOMB         .         .         .         .        .       .          71 

THE  WOOING  OF  THE  URN         .        .        .        .        .         .76 

THE  APPEAL      .        .        .        ...        .        .        .         79 

THE  LEAP       ..;,.. 83 

THE  VISION  OF  THE  KEY  88 


162710 


The  Misty  Day 

|h,  that  my  wish  were  charged  with  shot  like  a  gun 

To  hit  that  bird  that  sings  in  yonder  tree, 
And  send  its  aim  direct  like  rays  from  the  sun, 
That  burn  their  way  to  diamond  spray  in  the  sea  ! 
But  I  have  no  weapon  to  pierce  the  fog  and  night, 
And  only  a  dreadfull  dimness  in  place  of  sight. 

One  moment  I  feel  it  glow  like  flame  of  the  day, 
This  wish  that  flutters,   burns  and  beats  in  my  breast, 

All  crimson,  vermilion,  elusive  as  a  fay. 

And  strange  against  the  morn'  in  sapphire  dressed. 
Then  over  me  rolls  the  white,   thick  cloak  of  the  haze, 
I  can  light  no  lamp  to  clear  my  misty  daze. 

What  is  a  wish  that  it  leaps  along  my  veins, 
A  headless  thing  that  plunges  towards  a  brain, 
While  on  my  spirit  still  its  impulse  gains 
A  strength  insisting,  smarting  like  a  pain  ? 
It  strives  and  strives  with  all  its  tiny  might 
To  bring  before  my  curtained  gaze  a  light. 


THE    MISTY    DAY 

The  fog  is  gray,  the  mist  now  black,  now  white, 
No  sailor's  lantern  pierces  this  veil  dense  wound 
About  my  head,  condemned  the  clouds  to  fight, 
But  through  the  thickness  comes  a  mournful  sound, 
The  fisher's  horn  that  winds  its  dismal  note 
Along  the  shore  where  swings  in  fright  his  boat. 

The  bells  that  ring  to  save  the  ships  out  there, 
Scream  out  a  music  weird  that  tells  no  tale, 

And  holds  for  melody's  waiting  ear,    no  air; 

Yet  they  draw  my  wish  with  them  to  play  the  gale. 
And  still  the  mist  is  round  my  idiot  sense 
To  every  call  of  love  so  darkly  dense. 

Is  it  love  that  trembles  mute  and  unobserved 
Its  fragrance  quivering  on  the    choking  breeze, 
While  every  other  thought  from  it  has  swerved 
To  make  a  royal  way  its  heart  to  please? 
Oh  wrish,  oh  hope,  oh  light  and  life  and  love, 
Combine  in  one  and  soar  the  clouds  above  ! 

But  the  mist  and  haze  and  doubt  roll  on  again, 
While  still  my  wish  in  the  void  is  keen  and  lone, 
A  vibration  voiceless  sad,  imprisoned,  vain, 
Too  uncertain  e'en  to  cry  aloud  its  moan. 
I  am  lost  in  the  desolate  dark  of  the  long,  long  night, 
And  love,  too,  perhaps,  is  lost  on  a  distant  height. 


THE    MISTY    DAY 

Oh,  that  iny  wish  were  an  arrow  gold,  just  tipped 
With  an  edge  of  steel  to  cut  the  toughest  heart, 
I  would  send  it  flying  swift  until  it  ripped 
The  veil  from  all  the  blinding  fools  that  part. 
Dear  love  from  love  that  dearer  grows  in  might, 
When  from  its  view  is  shut  God's  holy  light. 

Oh,    Heaven  of  Heavens,    if  I  could  just  once  but  see 
Behind  the  clouds,  the  mist,  the  fog  and  the  fear, 
And  all  the  anguish  of  suspense  on  me, 
And  all  the  things  without  a  meaning  clear ! 
But  I  wander  on  with  sightless  eyes  downcast, 
And  never  know  if  near  me  love  has  passed. 


THE   DROP    OF   BLOOD    IN   THE   HEART 


The  Drop  of  Blood  in  the  Heart 

JTThe  drop  of  blood  too  much  that  ripples  red 
^^  Along  the  life  imprisoned  in  my  veins, 

Has  strayed  from  its  wonted  place  within  my  head, 
And  all  my  love  of  thought  exhausted  wanes. 

Where  then  has  gone  the  tiny  ruby  globe? 
Is  it  in  my  fingers'  strained  and  nervous  grasp, 

That  yearns  to  give  to  all  the  world  a  robe 
The  bare  and  ugly  spots  of  earth  to  clasp? 

Or  is  it  in  my  feet  that  long  to  run, 
Like  hoofs  of  flying  steeds  across  the  plain, 

To  catch  the  fitful  rays  of  revealing  sun 
That  through  the  prism  of  air  forever  strain? 

Is  it  fighting  like  a  tiger  in  my  jaw, 
Too  violent  to  rest  an  instant  calm, 

But  strong  of  tooth  just  snarling  at  the  door, 
Of  speech  that  seeks  in  vain  a  soothing  balm? 

I  probe  its  hiding-place  and  know  at  last 
From  one  chance  word  a  foe  flings  in  my  face, 

Just  where  the  crimson  globule  now  has  cast 
Its  might  and  where  to  find  its  bloody  trace. 


THE  DROP  OF  BI^OOD  IN  THE  HEART 


She  said:  the  one  I  loved  the  most,   the  least 
L,oved  me,  for  he  had  sold  me  to  the  thieves, 

Betrayed  me  for  the  price  of  an  idle  feast, 
And  turned  hope's  blossom  shoot  to  withered  leaves. 

For  a  moment  darkness  falls  like  death's  own  pall, 
The  stab  acute  has  touched  the  vital  core, 

Oh,  now  I  know  where  drops  that  red,  red  ball, — 
My  heart  is  sinking  in  excess  of  gore. 

Did  Desdemona  feel  a  pain  so  sharp, 
When  the  Moor's  black  fingers  crushed  her  slender  throat? 

The  organ  strains  and  shrieks  like  a  frenzied  harp, 
Played  by  a  storm  whose  winds  on  murder  gloat. 

I  smother  and  the  voice  has  left  my  lips, 
How  could  you  be  so  cruel,  sweetheart  mine, 

And  give  to  my  fond  love  of  you  such  whips 
Of  scorn,  in  stifling  blood  my  name  to  sign? 

The  clot  has  passed  the  frail,  thin  channel  through, 
I  am  not  dead,  but  wondering  like  a  ghost 

Returned  from  death's  black  misty  bourn,  how  you 
Could  send  the  drop  where  it  would  hurt  the  most. 


10  THE   ASP 


The  Asp 

ist  year  when  I  was  dead, 
With  icicles  on  my  head, 
I  looked  with  ghostly  eyes  from  out  my  grave, 

Upon  the  living  world, 
In  folly's  eddies  hurled, 
L/ike  tattered  sea- weed  in  a  slimy  cave. 

I  wake  with  summons  sharp, 

Strong  hands  upon  my  harp 
Of  being  strike  a  chord  that  cleaves  the  air. 

Invisible  waves  disturbed, 
Enchanting  sound  uncurbed, 

Make  melodies  for  which  the  angels  care. 

Is  this  new  life  I  feel, 

My  heart's  consent  to  steal,  , 
From  the  frozen  waste  of  empty,  barren  days  ? 

"March  on",  out  loud  it  cries, 
"The  howling  winds  arise, 

The  pageant  of  throbbing  millions  waits  your  gaze." 


THE    ASP  11 

My  nerves  become  an  asp, 

With  coils  that  long  to  clasp 
Around  the  tree  of  knowledge  waving  high, 

With  gorgeous  leaves  immense, 
And   foliage  velvet  dense, 

Into  the  zenith  where  the  gods  are  nigh. 

This  gift  must  come  from  thee, 

Ivike  lightning  it  darts  to  me, 
My  pulse  inflaming  with  the  thing  called  will, 

Old  uses  to  despise, 
Dear  freedom's  hope  to  prize, 

The  destroyers  of  the  innocent  to  kill. 

It  begs,  nor  rest,  nor  stop, 

Disdains  the  weakling's  prop, 
Advancing  like  the  river's  endless  flow, 

Or  perfect  circle  round, 
The  wisest  to   confound 

In  efforts  its  beginning  or  end  to  know. 

If  will  and  wish  were  one, 

My  task  would  at  once  be  done, 
I  would  send  this  jumping,  electric  force  of  mine, 

Across  the  sandy  plains, 
Or  where  the  sunset  wanes, 

To  reach  its  goal  in  that  great  heart  of  thine. 


12  THE   ASP 

Since  barriers  high  are  raised, 

And  all  our  senses  dazed, 
By  gold  that  with  deceit  conspires  to  slay 

Kach  cherished  thrill  we  feel, 
We  can  but  bravely  deal 

The  avenging  blow  on  fate  that  blocks  our  way. 

Imprisoned  in  a  cage, 

In  helpless,  hopeless  rage, 
My  will  galvanic  still  can  mock  and  scorn 

Frail  men  without  an  aim, 
To  tyranny  still  tame, 

Rambling  indeterminate,  forlorn. 

Intense,  I  plunge  in  vain, 

Repeat  my  wild  refrain, 
That  tingling  life  can  not  be  meant  to  sting: 

Poor  death  is  far  too  meek, 
In  the  asp  a  rebel  seek, 

The  serpent  silent,   wise,   towards  love  to  spring. 


UNADORNED  13 


Unadorned 

^HJJhen  God  in  Nature  speaks  how  speaks  He  best  ? 

In   fragile  flower  rare  that  hangs  its  head  ? 

In  mighty   winds   that    sweep    from    ocean's    breast? 

Or  in  the  jungle  heat  where  wild  beasts  tread? 

The  query  of  an  idle  dinner  hour, 
From  ever}'  guest  a  different  answer  drew, 

With  reverent  thoughts  upraised  one  looked  for  Power, 
Another  worshiped  Light  and  varied  hue. 

"You  have  not  touched  creation's  loveliest  work," 
One  cried  with  eyes  that  swam  in  beauty's  bath, 

"Where  does  the  thought  divine  unquestioned  lurk, 
To  make  from  high  to  low  a  sunbeam's  path?" 

"Where  speaks  the  voice  like  whirling  spheres  in  rhyme, 
Our  ears  to  soothe  with  tones  of  peace  benign? 

A  woman  is  the  noblest  work  of  Time, 

Without  her  aura,  all  other  claims  resign." 

At  once  like  living  mind  the  mirror  gleamed, 
With  pictures  of  the  women  seated  there, 

Reflected  bright  and  white  their  diamonds  beamed, 
And  flowers  stirred  the  ripples  of  their  hair. 


14  UNADORNED 

The  mirror  begged  from  them  an  answering  glance, 
No  woman  the  challenge  dared  upright  to  meet, 

'Till  one  applied  unto  herself  the  lance, 
And  said:     "In  us  not  God,   but  art,    you  greet." 


"No  woman  lives  in  Nature's  pristine  mold, 
We  all  are  creature's  of  a  later  age, 

Seek  not  in  us  the  curves  and  colors  bold, 

That  marked  our  kind  before  it  knew  the  cage. 

But  still  the  artist  sought  the  human  face, 

That  would  express  God's  highest  gift  to  man, 

Felt  sure  that  He  would  not  His  kind  debase, 
And  give  unto  the  lower  type  the  van. 


At  last  he  found  her  stretched  upon  the  sand, 
Of  self  unconscious  gazing  on  the  bay, 

Where  restless  rocked  the  boat  her  husband  manned; 
The  sinking  sun  cloud-dimned  upon  her  lay. 

Like  fine  smoke  tendrils  curling  as  they  please, 
Her  midnight  hair  unknown  to  smoothing  brush, 

Waved  softly  as  a  thought  upon  the  breeze, 
While  in  her  eyes  one  saw  the  lovelight  rush. 


UNADORNED  15 

Those  orbs  whose  darkness  seemed  like  purple  night, 

Intense  with  Italy's  three  thousand  years 
Of  kindling  sun,   yet  in  their  glances  bright, 

Revealed  but  married  love,   above  all  fears. 

The  contour  of  her  perfect  oval  cheek, 

Enough  to  drive  a  sculptor  mad  with  joy, 
No  praise  or  flattery  had  learned  to  seek, 

But  softly  bent  upon  her  baby  boy. 

A  gown  so  cheap,   almost  a  rag,    it  seemed, 

Could  not  conceal  a  Phidias  line  of  breast, 
The  column  of  her  throat  exposed  just  gleamed 

Like  God's  first  dream  of  a  cylinder  as  a  rest. 

As  the  fisher-lad  advanced  to  take  his  own, 

The  artist  withdrew,  but  praised  his  star 
That  with  loveliness  as  guide  to  him  had  shown, 

A  face  that  art  had  never  tried  to  mar. 

On  tip-toe  breathless  as  before  a  shrine, 

He  left  the  hut  that  formed  the  Madonna's  home, 

Praying  she  would  never  know  her  gift  divine, 
Unmirrored  beauty  fit  to  adorn  a  dome. 


16  WELL,   THKN  TOMORROW 


Well,  Then  Tomorrow 

Tj|iiell,  then,  tomorrow,  love,  we  meet  again, 

These  were  the  words  my  heart's  hunger  fed, 

When  through  the  midnight  maze  your  spirit  led, 
A  zephyr's  murmur  mid  the  graves  of  men, 

Whose  fruitless  lives  but  helped  them  on  to  die. 
The  thought  of  you  my  every  pulse  inflames; 

Untangled  deep  in  mystic  doubt,  yet  aims 
My  life  towards  you,    and  still,  rapt  sweet,    I  cry, 

Oh  give  to  me  that  fairy  morrow's  glow 
When  every  thunder-cloud  of  woe  will  fade 

Into  the  pageant  of  the  sun  you  made 
By  a  fancy  rare  all  conquering  high  and  low. 

Always  I  sadly  yearn  towards  that  bright  day. 
The  hours  like  ice-bound  ages  pass  away. 


THINK  EYKS  17 


Thine  Eyes 

Jow  can  I  try  to  paint  those  eyes  of  thine  ? 

How  put  in  words  the  splendor  of  their  gleam? 
I  can  but  catch  their  beauty's  magic  beam, 

And  whisper  low  their  glory  is  divine. 
To  liken  them  to  jewels,   oh,  for  shame  ! 

What  diamond  ever  could  so  burn  and  pierce 
Or  radiate  a  brilliancy  splendid  fierce, 

kike  unto  a  God-sent  shaft  of  flame? 
The  stars  abashed  in  silence  creep  away, 

Their  secret  but  dead  nature's  gaseous  shimmer, 
A  copy  faint  of  the  transendent  glimmer. 
That  in  thine  eyes  makes  endless  burning  day. 

Oh,  lamps  so  strong  and  rare,   will  you  not  light 
The  poor  and  stricken  world  to  clearer  sight? 


18  CONTRAST 


Contrast 

A  re  many  lives  so  chill  and  bare  and  drear, 

So  starved  for  want  of  breezes  from  the  sky, 
Compelled  to  live  below  with  soul  on  high, 

As  this  cold  heart  of  mine  when  none  is  near, 
To  tell  me  that  per  chance  you  love  me,  dear, 

And  that   amid  the  waste-lands  dark  that  lie 
In  sickly  swamps  where  marsh-birds  feebly  fly, 

One  star  of  regal  love  can  distance  fear  ? 
Perhaps  it  is  that  duller  looks  the  sod, 

And  heavier  is  the  weight  of  leaden  cloud, 
By  contrast  with  your  power,  rare  and  proud; 

Against  the  blaze  of  light,    the  shadows  nod. 
But  this  I  know  to  be  forever  true  : 

My  dreams,  my  hope,  my  life,  are  all  for  you. 


HALF  A  HEART  19 


Half  A  Heart 

/7[he  world,  a  golden  globe,    in  sunlight  basks, 
Too  dazzling  bright  for  my  poor  tired  eyes, 
And  thought  that  diamonds'  splendor  still  defies, 

When  e'en  their  gleam  each  frightened  moment  masks. 
Yet,  who  am  I  that  begs  instead  a  heart, 

A  wafted  breath  of  love  from  o'er  the  mist 
Of  courts  and  empires  simply  made  to  part 

From  me  the  brow  my  soul  has  kissed? 
Then  must  I  share  with  throngs  of  battling  men, 

And  creeds  and  kingdoms  wildly,  sorely  tossed, 
The  love  that  clasped  my  being's  tendrils  when 

I  saw  you  first  and  never  dreamed  the  cost? 
One-half  your  heart  is  better  far  than  none, 

Come  back,  come  back,  you  still  will  find  me  won. 


20  DAMNATION 


Damnation 

^|They  tore  me  bleeding  from  your  arms  and  cast 
My  body  on  the  jagged  rocks  below 

The  cliff  so  high  where  I  yearned  with  you  to  go, 
And  left  me  there  to  breast  the  surf  that  past 

In  blinding  torrents  of  swirling  spray. 
The  waves  of  fury  bruised  and  stung  my  face, 

Nor  could  my  utmost  force  against  them  brace; 
In  brutal  grip,  I  helpless,    hopeless  lay. 

Far  out  the  sea  shone  calm  and  cool  and  deep, 
I  stretched  my  arms  to  reach  the  death  it  held, 

Ten  thousand  grinning  fiends  my  purpose  felled, 
Denied  to  me  the  rest  of  that  dark  leap. 

And  still  I  dreamed  of  bliss  remote,   yet  near, 

While  in  the  chaos  dim,    I  saw  the  demons  leer. 


THE    REVEALING  21 


The  Revealing 


JjCer  face  took  on  the  look  of  one  resigned 

ty 

To  failure  of  the  hope  her  ardor  craved, 
For  youth  had  slipped  away  down  pathways  lined 

With  weeds  that  never  once  a  flower  waved. 
Beyond  dear  death  that  flew  from  her  swift  chase 

Was  it  true  there  lay  a  Ressurrection  land? 
When  earth  would  not  vouchsafe  an  instant's  grace 

Of  yearning  love  sweet-faced  with  out-stretched  hand, 
Were  not  the  thoughts  of  Heaven  a  myth  fine-spun, 

And  woven  of  the  frailest  web  of  lies? 
Her  heart  close-guarded  like  a  cloistered  nun, 

Was  a  bird  long  dead  that  surely  could  not  rise. 
But,   oh,    the  fluttering  of  its  trembling  wings, 

When  love  at  last  revealed  its  lyric  sings ! 


22  A   MESSAGE 


A  Message 

|h,  why  this  sudden  trembling  of  my  frame, 

This  quivering  tug  on  heart  and  brain  held  high  ? 
As  lightning  flame  God-sent  from  dusky  sky 

To  tell  of  wrath  divine  triumphant  came, 
As  magnet's  pull  on  every  bar  of    steel 

That  helpless  lies  until  the  current  burns 
Its  way  of  life  to  atom's  heart  and  turns 

To  use  the  mass  inert,    e'vn  so  I  feel 
A  summons  new  my  inmost  being  shake. 

Ivast  night  I  dreamt  that  I  had  joined  the  dead, 
The  somber  sad  dark  spirits  forward  led, 

In  mazes  drear  where  throbs  the  eternal  ache. 
But  now  revived  I  wake,   the  heavens  appear, 

The  glowing  clouds  have  told  me  you  are  near. 


COMPROMISE  23 


Compromise 

A     sigh  between  the  troubled  dreams  that  mar 

The  silence  of  the  long,  dark  Stygian  night; 
A  hope  that  gleams  across  a  scene  so  far 

Removed  from  that  dull  sense  called  mortal  sight, 
It  scarcely  seems  a  thing  of  earth  at  all, 

But  rather  some  faint  echo  of  a  song 
Heard  long  ago,   yet  lost  like  an  elfin  call, 

That  clings  yet  flies  from  memory's  dirge  of  wrong: 
These  were  the  things  that  stood  to  me  for  life, 

Filled  up  a  place  that  love  had  never  known, — 
The  compromise  aerial,   light,   whose  knife 

Could  cut  aside  the  death-wings  downward  blown. 
Now  through  the  ether  rings  a  piercing  shriek, 

Not  compromise  but  love's  own  self  to  seek. 


24  THE   WHISPER    OF   HOPE 


The  Whisper  of  Hope 

7|To-day  it  seems  so  strange  I  wished  to  die 

Ivast  night  when  love  had  fled  on  ghostly  wings 
And  left  me  pinioned  in  the  ice  while  things 

Of  dark  despair  hov'ring  made  heart-drops  sigh. 
Oh,   now  fond  spirit  voices  pierce  the  blue, 

The  shining  cloudlets  hold  a  message  ripe 
Of  rushing  rain  while  larks  with  tiny  pipe 

Taste  first  of  heaven  the  fragant  coming  dew. 
Oh,   let  me  not  remember  midnight's  scream 

And  terror  wild  of  conquering,   killing  pain, 
The  abyss  so  near  I  hardly  could  refrain 

From  plunging  deep  into  its  lurid  stream. 
But  listening  now  I  hear  a  whisper  sweet 

Of  rapture's  music  in  thy  soul  to  greet. 


UNREQUITED  25 


Unrequited 


/Tfhe  velvet  bloom  that  soft  on  lilies  lies, 

The  down  that  from  the  heart  of  flowers  blows, 
Is  ne'er  so  sweet  and  warm  as  where  she  sows, 

With  magic  hand  the  seed  of  love  that  ties 
Earth's  mystery  to  fhe  soul  of  upper  air. 

She  sends  a  throb  of  fancy,   winged,   aflame, 
To  every  one  who  courts  the  breath  of  fame, 

In  halls  where  music  has  the  tongue  of  prayer; 
Nor  ever  deigns  one  instant  to  forget 

The  friend  who  needs  the  balm  of  pulsing  praise, 
The  soothing  touch  that  can  the  languished  raise, 

In  moments  when  the  death-damps  rigid  set. 
Not  once  repaid  for  love  so  lavish,  strong, 

She  dies  alone,   away  from  light  and  song. 
j^\-'          ~^~ 

OF 


26  THE   WAII,   OF   THE   TRANSPORTS 


The  Wail  of  the  Transports 

A  nother  regiment   sailed   to-day   outbound, 
"^  For  distant  ports  half  way  the  world  around, 
Where  ancient  art  and  modern  enterprise 
Meet  in  a  novel  tourney,  bizarre,   profound. 

The  army  transport,  huge  and  white  and  swift, 
I/ike  a  mighty  swan,  with  skill  the  waves  to  lift, 

Swims  through  the  Golden  Gate  with  haughty  mien, 
So  sure  of  progress,  queen  of  ocean's  drift. 


And  on  the  land  eclipsed  and  left  behind, 
The  tendrils  of  a  thousand  hearts  must  wind 

Their  memories  with  the  sadness  of  farewell, 
The  mysteries  of  Time  and  Space  unkind. 

A  piece  of  a  soldier's  life  is  lived  right  here, 
The  sea-wind  high  and  City's  hum  both  near, 

Another  slice  is  given  to  the  Gulf, 

Or  to  the  sandy  plains  where  Indians  leer. 

Look,  now,  it  is  the  Orient,   beckoning  strong, 
That  takes  our  fighting  men  on  voyages  long, 

To  whet  their  zest  with  Asia's  fables  rare, 
Or  peer  into  a  strange,    forgotten  wrong. 


THE   WAIL   OF   THE   TRANSPORTS  27 

And  though  the  lovely  ship  on  which  they  sail 
Steams  out  like  Grecian  warrior  clad  in  mail, 

Oh,  still  she  bears  with  her  a  sad   refrain, 
Like  the  soughing  night- winds'  shrill  and  dreary  wail. 


Will  she  return  from  the  other  side  of  the  globe, 
Or  will  her  soldiers  don  the  Eastern  robe, 

And  lose  themselves  amid  the  mosques  sublime, 
And  find  thenceforth  then:  joy  in  history's  probe? 


She  has  gone,  has  gone,  has  gone,  the  breakers  cry, 
As  her  image  sinks  against  the  Western  sky; 

Who  knows  what  death  awaits  beyond  the  line, 
Where  she  disappears  from  every  searching  eye? 

Can  a  gunner  give  away  and  yet  retain 
Kis  heart's  most  subtle  self,   divining  brain, 

Enthusiasm  to  bear  his  flag  afar? 
Or  must  his  friends  lament  the  cruel  drain? 


Absorbed  in  Duty's  sultry  tropic  heat, 
Where  Manila's  drums  so  ceaseless,   heavy  beat, 

The  warrior  has  not  even  time  to  think 
Of  home  abiding  through  the  changes  fleet. 


28  THE)  WAIIv   OF   THE)   TRANSPORTS 

The  years  go  on  like  tedious,  sleepy  snails, 
Working  and  waiting  make  such  weary  tales  ! 

No  victory  blushes  on  the  tired  brow 

Of  the  man  who  hopes  and  yearns  till  courage  fails. 

Is  it  worse  to  march  in  swamps  and  Philippine  rains, 
Doubting  if  one's  racking  mind  is  sane, 

Than  to  stay  at  home  and  pine  for  an  absent  friend, 
A  clasp  of  hand  that  somehow  soothes  all  pain  ? 

Another   regiment   came   in   to-day; 

Smiling,   dipping,   dimpling  in  the  bay, 
The  transport  hurried  through  the  harbor  gates, 

Then  shrieked  for  home  like  a  child  that  tires  of  play 

Yellow,   thin  and  gaunt,  but  ever  gay, 
With  foreign  stride  the  soldiers  make  their  way 

Among  familiar  scenes,  now  veiled  and  strange, 
At  home,  yet  not  at  home,  to  their  dismay. 

They  come  and  go  like  ebb  and  flow  of  tide, 
These  transports  borne  so  far  o'ver  the  ocean  wide, 

The  army  moves,   obedient  ever  on, 
And  hearts  from  hearts  obedient  too,  divide. 


LIGHTS   OF  ST.    VINCENT'S  29 


Lights  of  St.  Vincent's 

wilight  on  land  and  sea  and  within  the  home, 
No  cloud  or  sunset  story  in  Heaven's  dome; 
While  Silence  wed  to  mystery  on  the  main 

Gives   to  quiet  waves  in  evening's  reign 
A  peace  that  threatens  with  its  sombre  hue 

The  eye  that  seeks  in    vain  a  tint  of   blue; 
And  in  my  heart  a  twilight  like  a  rage, 

A  scream  as  if  the  dark  would  bring  the  wage 
Of  sin  and  unknown  monsters  waiting  still 

To  avenge  themselves  on  acquiescent  will. 
Is  life  like  this  a  twilight  vague  and  long, 

Where  nothingness  is  the  enemy  most  strong 
To  dull  the  mind  with  drug  of  sad  despair, 

And    lure  the  weakened  will  to  the  tiger's  lair, 
Where  a  savage  thirst  of  blood  supplies  a  hope? 

Now  dim  forebodings  in  the  conscience  grope, 
As  darker  falls  the  twilight  on  the  shore, 

And  every  little  homestead  shuts  its  door, 
For  the  evening  meal  within,  and  fireside  talk, 

And  inner  moments  queer  when  fairies  walk, 


30  LIGHTS  OF    ST.   VINCENT'S 

And  thrust  their  tiny  noses  twixt  your  plate 

And  you  with  presence  strong  as  God-sent  fate. 
Restless  I  my  face  to  the  window-pane 

With  hungry  spirit  the  fading  light-rays  drain. 
Oh,  the  fear  of  the  little  sordid  rooms, 

While  night  with  blackening  menace  lower  looms! 
And  the  prayer  for  something  large  and  strong  and  bright, 

For  a  serenade  or  a  flash  of  lightning  white, 
Or  a  heart  that  dangling  on  a  quivering  string 

Of  telegraph  wire,  from  misery  takes  its  sting ! 
The  blindest  eyes  that  helpless  stare  on  space, 

Are  not  the  ones  locked  in  a  midnight  case, 
But   those  which  never  find  a  meaning  sweet 

In  ugly  things,  or  for  themselves  retreat 
From  that  they  would  not  see,  but  ever  dwell 

On  the  muddy  basin  of  a  flower-grown  dell. 
For  look,  while  yet  the  gloaming  weighs  me  down, 

And  all  the  world  takes  on  an  Autumn  brown, 
A  sudden  brilliance  glimmers  in  the  calm, 

As   if  a  spirit   lent  a  friendly   arm; 
Just  the  vesper  light  of  the  parish  church, 

But  twinkling  through  the  dark  their  flood-beams  search 
Into  the  last  recess  of  my  wounded  soul. 

A  thousand  prayers  their  softened  accents  roll, 
From  out  the  humble  shrine  that  kneels  to  God, 

And  from  the  open  door,  in  silence  odd, 
There  come  the  clustering  spirits  of  the  good, 


LIGHTS   OF   ST.  VINCENT'S  31 

Whose   uplifted   thoughts  become  a  gleaming  wood 
Of  lovelier  trees  than  mortal  eyes  can  find, 

No  matter  how  their  curious  glances  wind 
From  darkness  to  light  and  back  again  in   search 

Of  something  rare  to  view.    St.  Vincent's  church 
Has  caught  from  Heaven's  own  rays  that  gild  the  west, 

A  charmed  being  with  gauzy  air- wings  dressed. 
While  lo!  upon  the  summit   of   the  cross 

That  golden  shines  e'en  in  the  sunset's  loss, 
The  evening  star  imprints  its  subtle  kiss 

On  sorrow's  emblem  thus  touched  to  finer  bliss 
Than   simple   rapture   knows.     As  twilight   falls 

To  darker  night,  the  home  of  God  yet  calls 
To  smaller  homes  bereft  of  love  divine. 

While  in  echo  ever  new  the  choirs  combine 
To  make  the  silence  rich  with  music  thought, 

As  to  the  darkness  dazzling  light  was  brought. 


32  BKTRAYAI,    IN    VAIN 

Betrayal  in  Vain 

A  lone    she   drooped   as   a    flower   culled   and   left   to   die, 
^^  When  neither  dew  nor  rain  her  stem  to  fill  is  nigh. 

Cascades  that  plash  o'er  barren  rocks  unseen  must  yearn 
The  coy  and  brilliant  tricks  of  the  fountain's  spray  to  learn. 

And  so  her  soul  that  grew  quite  wild  in  mountain  space 
Aspired  the  lineaments  of  human  kind  to  trace. 

Untouched   by  gardener's  hand  her   flower   of   being  frail 
Sent  out  its  shy  perfume  while  blushed  its  petals  pale. 

Her  dreams  now  bent  upon  the  magic  thought  of  friend, 
A  heart  that  answered  roses  to  her  cheek  to  lend. 

And  then  one  came  with  footfalls  soft  as  fluffy  snow, 
And   whispered   with  a  silky   voice:    "I  love  you  so." 

With  all  its  purr  of  soft  melodious  tones  to  woo 

A  fainting  heart,  the  voice  no  quivering  answer  drew. 

The  human  face  still  looked  a  fantasy  of  cloud, 
That  dazzles  and  allures  but  wins  no  spirit  proud. 

Her    eyes  that  glowed  like  fireflies  in  dusky  woods  at  night, 
Booked  strange  and  far  away  as  if  devoid  of  earthly  sight. 


BETRAYAL    IN  VAIN  3c 

At  once  a  panther  bold  and  timid  doe  she  clung 
To  hope  of  love,  yet  from  her  all  caressing  flung. 

"Come,    place  your  head  upon  my  breast,"   the  tempter  pressed, 
"Sleep  as  those  who  on  a  million  feathers  rest." 

That  word's  rare  magic   like  the  potion  of  a  god, 
Would  seduce  a  hero  from  battle  to  the  land  of  Nod. 

A  lonely  bird  exiled  from  nesting  tree  or  mate, 

She  listened,  swayed,  and  seemed  to  run  to  meet  her  fate. 

The    friend  quite  sure  that  sweetness  is  the  best  decoy, 
Now  forward  pounced  to  take  his  prize  without  alloy: 

''No   more   you   walk   the   desert    stretch    of   blazing    sand, 
You  thirsty  soul,  we'll  walk  together,   take  my  hand. 

"We'll  seal  our  union  with  this  kiss  of  living  flame, 
And  share  forever  side  by  side  the  joy  of  fame." 

With   arms   outstretched   the    embrace   to  snatch  and   to   betray 
The  willing  slave,  the   friend  strode   out  to  meet   his   prey. 

He  grasped  but  empty  space,    for   she   had   gone  like   mist 
Absorbed   into   the   ether   there  to  make  her   tryst. 

The    shy   wild    thing   dissolved   at   touch  of   treacherous    love, 
Escaped  like  hydrogen  from  earth  to  the  air  above. 


34  THB   ACTOR'S   I/ESSON 


The  Actor's  Lesson 

A   tragedy   in   one   act. 
Scene:    Sea-beach  garden  of  the  Hotel  L/enon,    California. 

Characters: 

AI,PHONSE,   an  actor  ;  FORTICO,  a  murderer; 

,  a  haughty  Spanish  woman;     CUNGRAY,  a  lover. 


AiyPHONSK:     Was    ever   man    so    strangely    placed   as  I, 
For   inspiration   longing   on    my   knees, 
Bending  every  nerve  for  art's  dear  sake, 
While  in  my  brain  sits  vacancy   enthroned? 
My  head  seems  empty  as  a  rubber  ball 
That  pressed  within   the  hand  becomes  as  nought  ; 
Or  like  a  queerly  fashioned  marble  dome 
So  void  it  knows  not  even  echo's  song. 
Why  ever  did  I  woo  the  Tragic  Muse, 
To  be  so  spurned  and  left  upon  the  strand, 
Where  forsaken  swains  beat  out  their  hearts  in  spleen? 
The  sea-weed  tangled  with  a  broken  spar, 
And  lying  dead  and  dank  upon  the  beach, 


THE   ACTOR'S  LESSON  35 

Perhaps  can  feel  a  mightier  thrill  than  I, 

The   drifting  fragment  of  a   fruitless   hope  ! 

To  stand  upon  the  stage  like  sculpture  poised, 

Above  a  crowd  in  rapture  so  intense, 

They  seem  a  unity  of  speechless  praise, 

While  the  actor    carries  them  to  lofty  flights 

Of  emotion  in   the   realm   of   living  truth: — 

This  dream,  the  beacon-light  I  strained  to  see 

Through  all  the  cloudland  of  a  youth  ill-taught, 

Is  now  upon  the  troublous  verge  of  day, 

Where  the  awaking  mind  sees  things  but  as  they  are. 

Am  I  so  thick  art  cannot  pierce  me  through? 

Or  is  it  true  that  art  just  filters  life, 

That  we  proclaim  no  truth  but  that  we  feel, 

And  senseless  are  to  every  throb  not  ours? 

Must  every  phrase  that  curves  the  actor's  lips 

Come   first  from  some  live  burning  in   the  brain? 

I  rave:    dull  failure  should  not  make  complaint; 

It  is  a  nothingness,   a  silence, — death. 

The  pure  white  sand  that  rims  the  ocean's  edge, 

As  perfect  rest  opposed  to  motion's  heat, 

Might  tempt  a  poet  to  a  lofty  strain, 

But  I  would  scarcely  gaze  upon  it  twice; 

The  drama  has  no  need  of  Nature's  play, 

And  even  scorns  her  loftiest   appeal 

In    color-painting   against  a  sunset   sky. 

It  wants  the  human  agony  quite  raw, 


36  THE   ACTOR'S  LESSON 

If  men  are  not  too  thin  and  peevish  grown, 
To  feel  in  this  late  day  a  pang  sublime. 

(Enter  I^oKta  at  a  little  distance.) 
In  other  days  that  lovely  woman  there 
Would   work   mad   passions   of  a  jealous   hate: 
To-day  one  notes  the  fashion  of   her  gown. 

(to  Ivolita) 

Will   you  pardon   me   if   I  speak   an   honest   mind,  — 
You   look  so  like  a  Juliet   of   the   stage. 

IvOUTA  (frowning)  :  Your  honest  mind  has  wandered  far  astray, 
For  Juliet  I  hold   in    strict   contempt. 

AI.PHONSE:     Why  then  the  beauty  of  your  Spanish  face, 
Is  not  a  clue  to  what  you  feel,   but  hides 
Instead  a   laughty  heart  that  knows  not  love  ; 
And  to  read  aright  the  whims  that  turn  your  soul, 
The  reader  needs  the  key  to  your  cryptogram  ; 
Must  translate  the  fire  in  your  jetty  eyes 
As  inward  ice,   and  give  to  your  oval  cheek, 
The  sharpened  lines  of  angular  disdain. 


I  think  you  challenge  me  to  a  painful  choice, 
Would  compel  an  admission  of  sweet  vanity, 
Or  rank  me  with  disappointed  maids, 
Whose  blood  runs  gall,   whose  lips  spill  acid  bile. 
This  much  I  will  confess:    I  love  not  men. 


THK   ACTOR'S  LESSON  37 

:     There  is  nc  drama  then;  a  sculptor's  hope 
You  perhaps  may  be,   but  you  swim  not  in  my  ken. 

Not  if  men  should  love  me? 


AI,PHONSE:     Without  response? 
I  have  seen  men  rave  before  a  Roman  shrine 
Where  the    imaged  Virgin  stares   with  waxen  eyes; 
I  have  seen  them  kiss  in  frenzied  ecstacy 
The  silent  lips  of  a  Madonna  of  the  brush,  — 
But  that  would  only  make  a  monologue. 


How  little  you  can  read  the  human  heart, 
If  the  only  pang  you  give  to  it  is  love  ! 

(Enter  Portico.     I/olita  starts.) 
FORTICO:     I  thought  to  find  my  lady  here  aloue. 

AI,PHONSE:     I  interrupt?    Oh,  pardon  me,  I'll  go! 

IvOUTA  (to  Alphonse)  :  I  pray  you  stay  awhile  —  I  fear  him  so  ! 

FORTICO:     I  gain!    You  confess  at  last  you  have  a  fear? 


:    Only  fools  can  claim  exemption  from  cold  fright.- 
The   little-brained   go    strutting   on   their   toes; 
They   take  a  ship  in  a  vengeful  storm  and  smile; 
They  sit  upon  a  mammoth   precipice, 


38  THE   ACTOR'S  LESSON 

And  cry:   Behold!     No  harm  can  come  to  me  ! 
A  dwarf  will  freely  play  with  a  lion's  tail 
And  only  start  when  he  is  in  its  jaws: 
While  I,— 

PORTICO:    While  you  have  fear  of  a  simple  human  man! 
And  I  have  nought  against  you  but  your  face. 
A  duty   hides    within    my   twisted   will 
To  lop  off  all  extremes.     You  are  too  fine  ! 
You  scarcely  seem  a  thing  of  every  day, 
But  a  being  drifted  from  a  rival  sphere, 
Who  aims  to  excel    our    planet's    simple  kind. 
Why  here  we  try  to  be  somewhat  alike, 
No  one  should  leap  to  overtop  the  rest. 
It  is  as  if  in  music  you  had  tried 
To  invent  a  note  one  never  heard  before, 
Much  higher  up  than  any  opera  voice, 
Or  any  tone  the  nicest  instrument 
Could  sound.     There  competition  cannot  climb 
To  follow  you.     Then  must  we  drag  you  down. 

AijPHONSE:    Your  argument  is  strange.     What  would  you  do? 
(Enter  Clingray) 

CUNGRAY:  Are  you  then  so  young  you  do  not  know  his  end? 
And  have  you  never  met  his  kind  before? 

PORTICO:     You  see  he  does  not  know, — his  eyes  are  blank. 


THE   ACTOR'S  LESSON  39 

L,OUTA:     A  midget  who  never  knows  what  it  is  to  fear, 
Who  has  never  looked  cold  murder  in  the  face, 
And  called  it  by  its  name;  who  never  fell 
Among  a  tribe  of  thieves  who  strangled  him 
For  the  gold  they  knew  not  how  to  earn  themselves, — 
Who  never  looked  with  smiling  eyes  alight 
Into  the  coffin  waiting  for  his  corpse  ! 
May  he  learn  like  me  what  it  is  to  have  a  gift 
That  stirs  such  howling  wolves  of  envy's  tribe, 
They  cannot  rest  until  it  is  extinct! 

CUNGRAY:     Lolita!     Your   gift   of   eye   and   lip   and   hair 
But    keep    me  kneeling   at   your    feet  in   awe ! 

AivPHONSE:     I  seem  to  probe  a  secret  newly  found. 

(to  Portico) 
Will  you  come  this  way  and  enlighten  me  still  more? 

FORTICO:     I  think  I  see  in  you  the  proud  extreme. 
Yes,   I  will  walk  with  you. 

(Exit  Alphonse  and  Fortico) 
CUNGRAY:     They  love  you  both! 

IvOUTA:     What  right  have  you  to  ask?     I  choose  my  path. 

CUNGRAY:     What  right  have  I?    You  feign  to  be  obtuse, 
Pretend  you  cannot  read  what  my  eyes  proclaim 
In  letters  more  distinct  than  the  largest  print 


40  THE   ACTOR'S  IvESSON 

That  ever  spelled  a  fact  on  a  painted  fence? 

You  cannot  see  the  ocean  at  your  feet, 

Whose  waves  curl  towards  you  with  a  caress  profound: 

You  cannot  see  the  emerald  of  the  hills, 

Or  the    shadow   of   the   lighthouse   on    the  sand, 

If  you  cannot  see  my  consuming  love  for  you. 

I/ook  in  my  eyes  and  read  the  brain  behind. 

Its  every  speck  is  a  mirror  of  your  face. 

If   I   walk   across   the   woods   and   fields   of   grass, 

Bach    twig  and  herb  but  shows  your  head  divine. 

I  tremble  in  the   darkness   of   the   night, 

For   though   black   to    every   other  sight, 

My    eyes    still    see   you    near   my   troubled    couch. 

If  I  bend  upon  a  book  you  blur  the  page, 

Your  haunting,  heavenly  eyes  intruding  there. 

I/olita,  this  rmadness  in   my   veins   must  cease,  — 

When  will  you  be  my  bride? 


You   should   not   ask. 
You  know  that  I  can  never  be  your  wife. 
Suppose  I  see  your  love?    Why  should  I  care? 
A  fire  is  no  novel  sight  to  me, 
Nor  does  men's  frenzy  tempt  me  to  a  sigh, 
One  never  seeks  so  earnestly  for  ice 
As  when  an  exile  in  a  tropic-land; 
And  I  think  I  see  in  you  the  burning  south 
That  woos  the  glistening  frost  of  an  arctic  heart. 


THE   ACTOR'S  IvESSON  41 

CUNGRAY:     It  is  pretense, — your  beauty  gives  the  lie. 
If  not  my  desperate  self, — then    some  one  else. 
See  Portico  comes  this  way. 

(Enter  Fortico  and  Alphonse.  Alphonse  stands  at  a  little 
distance.     Fortico  approaches.) 

CUNGRAY:    He  must  answer  me. 

(To  Fortico) 
Your  brow  takes  on  an  ugly  scowl.     What  now? 

FORTICO:     I  thought  to  see   you  locked  in  an  embrace. 
The  languor  of  her  eyes  would  tempt  a  saint, — 
And  yet  she  stands  defiant  to  a  kiss ! 
Such  resistance  needs  the  avenging  lash, — 
The  woman  claims  she  is  too  fine  for  love, 
And  can  like  spirit,  disembodied,  fly, 
On  top  of  adoration's  very  pulse 
I  swear  she  shall  not  be  too  fine  for  us ! 
For  locked  within  my  arms,  my  lips  on  hers, 
She  who  spurned  real  love,  shall  touch  with  hate. 
(He   advances  to  grasp  her.) 

CUNGRAY:     No,  no,  if  she  is  taken  by  assault, 
Give  me  the  task.     To   persuasion  deaf,  she  will  yield 
To  the  pressure  of  my  arms.     lyolita,  speak  ! 

(He  advances  towards  her,   so  that  he  and  Fortico  are 
both  pressing  within  a  few  inches  of  her.) 


42  THK   ACTOR'S 


I/OUTA:     A    moment  wait:  —  if  I  were  condemned  to  die, 
Ivike  an  ancient  martyr  tied  to  a  burning  stake, 
I  should  be  given  one  last  chance  to  speak. 
Perhaps  I  seem  to  you  a  fragile  thing, 
Yet  I  am  larger  than  a  world  of  hate. 
I  hate  you,  Portico,  for  your  envy  base, 
And  you  wild    Clingray  for  your  passion  bold. 
This  hate  is  in  me  like  a  cosmic  force:  — 
We  learn  of  growth  from  a  modest  buttercup, 
And  light  is  signified  in  a  firefly;  — 
A  baby  lamb  can  speak  of  love  divine,  — 
And  regal  universal  hate  can  speak 
In  my    poor   woman's    frame.     It    fills    me  now 
As  if  it  would    burst    the   tissue    of  my  heart. 

PORTICO:    I/olita,  you    are  sublime  !     Then    kiss   or    die  ! 
CWNGRAY:  The  first  kiss  is  mine  !  Oh,  woman  of  my  dreams  ! 

(They  both  advance  to  her  and  catch  her  in  a  double  embrace, 

which  she  resists  violently  with  muffled  cries.    Alphonse 

aroused   from  his   position   as   spectator,    advances 

just  as    Ivolita  gives  a   piercing    shriek,    and 

falls  in  an  apparent  faint.) 

ALPHONSE:     You  cannot  mean  to  play  an  earnest  part,  — 
You  would  not   kiss  a  woman  against   her  will  ! 
This  jest  has  gone  too  far,  —  she  looks  so  pale  ! 
I  think  she  faints. 

(Clingray  takes  the  limp  figure  of  Lolita  in  his  arms.) 


THE   ACTOR'S  LESSON  43 

CUNGRAY:     Her  breath   seems  almost  gone  ! 

PORTICO:     Almost!     She  is  quite  dead,  my  simple  friends! 
The   wonder    never    ceases   how   men    fall 
Into  the  traps  I  set.     You  know  my  game, — 
I  am  a  murderer  who  goes  unchecked. 
You  are  so  weak, — you  follow  on  my  lead. 
Farewell.  (Exit  Portico.) 

CUNGRAY:     Oh,    merciful    God,  dare  I  call   on  Thee? 
It   was   love   that    stole    from    me   my   power   of   mind,  — 
I  could  not  think  for  the  raging,    howling  flames 
That  laved  me  from  without  and  scorched  within. 
In  all  the  world  there  is  no  other  maid 
To  take  her  place.     I  killed  the    fairest  thing 
The  horned  earth  has  known  in  this  late  day ! 

AU>HONSE:     I  watched  the  play, — it  seemed  to  me  she  died 
Prom    rage,  the   anger   breaking   through    her    heart. 

CUNGRAY:    Oh,  God !  If  I  could  but  bring  her  back  to  life ! 
Oh,    let   me   try !    Or   is  this  wish  a  plunge 
Towards  a  madman's  doom?    I  love  her   precious  corpse. 
Oh,    let  me  take  her  with  me  to  my  home ! 
I  will  talk  to  her;  she  will  come  back;  she  must ! 

(Exit  Clingray  carrying  the  corpse  of  Lolita.) 

AU>HONSE:    Oh,  friendly  trees  and  voices  of  the  wind, 
Oh,    shining  strand  of  pure  and  silvery  beach 


44  THE   ACTOR'S  LESSON 

That,  like  the   flowing  stroke  of  a  perfect  brush, 

Sweeps  from  the  master  painter's  supple  hand 

In  an  Autumn  mood  of  sweet  and  careless  grace, 

Let  me  bathe  my  face  in  your  pure  balm: 

Help   me   to   forget   this   passion   reel. 

I  longed  to  see  a  human  drama  live,  — 

And  now  that  one  has  burst  upon  my  sight, 

I  would  fling  myself  in  Lethe's  healing  stream, 

And  erase  for  aye  this  hideous  twist  of  hearts. 

Oh,  once  more  to  poise  like  a  snowy  bird 

That    flies   too  high   to   be   soiled   with   human  woe, 

Once  more  in  solitude  to  shiver,  freeze, 

And  wonder  if  our  Shakespeare  told  the  truth, 

Or  simply  lost  himself  in  genius'  maze. 

But   never   in   the   span   of   coming  years, 

Can  I  hope  to  find  what  I  have  lost  to-day. 

No  more  a  dreamer  clinging  to  a  myth, 

Sweet  with  the  perfume  of  the  dim  unknown, 

I  have  learnt  at  last  to  act:    I  am   free  for  art; 

And  yet, — and  yet, — I   could   have   loved   her  soul, 

Have  been  to  her  what  they  could  never  be, 

They  whose  infamy  just  crushed  her  heart, 

In   one   fierce   spasm   of   destroying   rage, 

Unheeding  I  stood  by,   in  art's  strange  trance, 

While  the   pageant   of   dramatic   life  swept  by. 

How  bitter  I  should  love  her  after  death! 


THE   OCEAN'S   REPI/Y  45 


The  Ocean's  Reply 

Jjtjieary  of  hugging  an  ungrateful  land, 

The  City's  dons  the  view  of  ocean  spanned, 
Saying:    "Fear  not,   the  sea  will  yet  provide 
For  all  who  work  by  subtle  brain  or  hand." 

'  'The  harbor  deep,  effulgent,  lies  in  the  sun, 
While  sparkling   waves   against  each   other  run, 

Now  white,    now  green,    now   indigo,   they  dance, 
Their  fish  electric  from  stagnation  won. 

"The  passing  ships  form  one  great  moving  chain, 
For  daily  greater  speed  and   vim   they   gain, 

To  bind  the  East  and  West  in  fond  embrace, 
In  love  far-stretched  whose  bonds  will  never  wane. ' ' 

The  ocean  close  beyond  the  miles  of  sand 
That  form  the  white-rimmed  verge  of  western  land, 

Shook   off   its   long   indifference  salt   and  cold, 
And  heard  the  yearning  voice  of  the  civic  band. 

Iviberal,  strong,  the  answer  rapid  came, 
From  depths  of  sea  the  proudest  hearts  to  tame; 

Out  of  the  summer  skies  a  deluge  burst, 
The  drops  like  bullets  at  our  heads  to  aim. 


46  THE    OCEAN'S   REPLY 

Oh,  beautiful,   rich,  luxuriant,  crystal  rain, 
You  never  fell  before  from  out  the  main, 

With  such  compelling  force,  such  boundless  wealth, 
To  prove  that  love  wins  back  the  noblest  gain. 

If  Drake  and  Serra  could  come  to  life  once  more, 
To  view  afresh  this  rediscovered  shore, 

They  would  see  their  dreams  fulfilled  and  wonder  why 
The  years  so  slowly  roll  where  breakers  roar. 

Like  Venice  in  her  bridal  of  the  sea, 
The  City's  yielding  kisses  yet  will  be, 

More  mystic  rare  the  union  ever  deep 

Pure  as  thoughts  of  love  from  language  free. 

The  flowers  that  bloom  on  Buddha's  altars  far, 
Will  waft  their  fragrance  unrestrained,    no  bar 

Of  anger  near  to  check  their   mild  advance, 
Or  sweet  inspiring  dreams  of  peace  to  mar. 

Come  on,  oh,  welcome  rain  from  ocean's  breast, 
All  wet  as  naiads  we  greet  you  yet   with  zest, 

As  symbol  of  a  marriage  unalloyed, 

Your  generous  floods  are  in  our  hillocks  pressed. 


SAN   FRANCISCO   DESTROYED  47 


San  Francisco  Destroyed 

[hat  portent  makes  the  air  of  Spring  so  drear, 

When  Easter  bells  wake  gladsome  sound  to  hearts 
But  just  released  from  L/enten  rigors  sere? 

What  shadow  lurks  ev'en  where  the  sunlight  darts, 
And  throws  a  chill  of  doom  o'er  money's  marts, 
Mocking  the  smile  that  breaks  on  merry  lips? 
The  zephyr  of  a  kindled  spirit  parts 

The  throng  of  singers  blithe,  and  darkly  dips 
Into  the  whirl  where  folly  endless  pleasure  sips. 

Oh,  restless  sleep  'of  sated  beauty's  bed, 

You  were  so  brief  that  dazzling  April  night, 
Before  the  dawn  that  woke  with  crash  so  dread, 

To  break  in  bits  the  City's  pride,   and  light 
The  sky  with  torch  that  flamed  from  every  height, 

Proclaiming  ruin  while,  rapture-thrilled,   each  sense 
Of  man  beat  high  in  wonder  at  his  plight. 

Pierced  through  the  cloud  of  fire  and  smoke  so  dense, 
An  awe  superb,  to  hold  the  world  in  waiting  tense. 

What  does  God  mean  that  thus  his  wrath  he  hurls, 

From  horrid  gases  of  the  under-earth? 
Poor  babes  and  weaklings  helpless,   dazed,    He  whirls 


48  SAN  FRANCISCO  DESTROYED 

To  thoughts  far-dreamed,  and  Hope's  primeval  birth. 
Where  noble  stone  and  marble  in  stately  girth, 

Reared  up  proud  fronts  to  tell  of  commerce  gain, 
Where  flowers  wound  in  every  guise  of  mirth, 

Now  stands  the  mammoth  funeral  pile  of  pain, 
The  billowy  hills,  revealed,  but  one  lamenting  stain. 

Like  cruel  Moloch  screeching  for  his  food, 

The  raving  fury  spread  and  claimed  its  own, 
Now  urged  by  demon-force,  by  wind-storms  wooed, 

It  spared  no  sacred  relic  old,   no  stone 
Escaped  nor  gold  nor  treasure  rare;  alone 

The  black  and  stricken  earth,  now  dumb,  points  back 
To  glories  past,   to  art  whose  ashes  moan; 

The  sacrifice  complete  for  memory's  rack, 
Now  when  all  sculptured  joy  the  tortured  eye  must  lack. 

Here  pity  tears  our  vitals  through  and  through, 

At  waste  so  sudden,  vast,   unkind,  while  still 
The  endless  Why  that  first  in  Eden  grew 

Peeps  in  and  looks  on  high  for  sight  of  Will 
So  strong  the  work  of  toilful  years  to  kill. 

Above  a  ground  all  withered,   shrunk  and  dead, 
The  sky  now  gleams  with  compensating  thrill 

Of  foamy  cloud,  gold-lined,   deep  heart's  blood  red, 
The  Master's  colors  glow  like  Light  to  Magic  wed. 


SAN   FRANCISCO  DESTROYED  49 

Now  while  the  native  wanders,  lost,   forlorn, 

O'er  foreign  paths  of   crumbling  brick,   the  end 
Of  churches   famed   before   the   fatal   morn, 

When  to  their  doom  the  tallest  had  to  bend ; 
The  stranger  looks  aghast:   his  footsteps  wend 

Their   weary    way    in    chaos'   peril  dark, 
The   scenes   to   hell   his   downward   glances   send, 

But  still  the  sapphire  sea  with  white-winged  bark, 
His  upward  gaze  on  hill  and  sky,   new  beauty  mark. 

Which  way,  which  way,    oh,   native  son  and  guest, 

Shall  strained,  dim  eyes  now  look  for  chance  to  stay, 
Which  view  will  give  the  halcyon  glimpse  of  rest? 

Do  we  unfold  our  senses  in  the  ray 
Of  sunset's  kisses  to  a  regal  bay, 

The  western  heaven,  gorgeous,  new,  proclaimed, 
Enchanting   swirl   of  tropic   night,    and   day 

Of  witching  breeze,   or  has  destruction  aimed 
To  dull  our  sight  and  leave  us  stupid,  sad  and  maimed? 

Can    Heaven  protect  us  from  an  earth-born  fright, 
The  cloudland's  pictured  glory  stand  between 

An    ashen  empire   and   victims    of   its   might? 
Where  all  the  homes  of  wealth  now  broken  lean, 

Bereft  as  empty  tombs,    can  sweet  winds  mean 
To  send  a  joyous  thrill  redeeming  pain? 


50  SAN   FRANCISCO   DESTROYED 

Which  way?    Which  way?    Oh,  who  that  once  has  seen 

The  playful  stars  and  upper  air,  would  deign 
To  root  his  glance  to  mud,    cast  on  a  lowly  plain? 

The  charred  remains  are  not  unlike  the  past, 

Whose  graves  are  wisdom's  vain  research,   the  veil 
Of  death's  concealment,  held  forever  fast, 

As  dark  to  sight  as  this  fair  land,  when  pale 
The  fogs  of  ocean  sweep  o'er  every  dale, 

And  crown  in  filmy  mist  the  hills'   proud  crest. 
The  sea's  unburied  ghosts,  condemned  to  sail 

Through  roaring  surf,  rebelling,  rush  from  the  west, 
The  hidden  dead  by  storm  or  fire  are  one  at  rest. 

A  murmur  grows,  a  whisper  tingling  life, 

A  sense  of  joy  vibrates  through  all  the  crowd, 
The  voice  of  hope  is  strangely,  clearly  rife; 

Consigned,  it  seems,   to  dust,  the  ashen    shroud 
That  cloaks  the  streets  where  bellowed  fierce  and  loud 

The  avenging  flame,  while  only  hearts  beat  bold 
With  pristine  strength,   sublime,   again  too  proud 

To  measure  life  by  any  creed  or  mold 
But   one  divinely   free   from  servile   love  of  gold. 


FREEDOM   ONCE    MORE  51 


Freedom  Once  More 

TTfhe  West  new-born  seeks  out  a  path  of  light, 

A  way  clear,  firm    and  true   to  lead  the   mind 
From  hopeless  darkness  to  the  fields  of  fight, 

Where    every    stricken    soul    can    purpose  find 
In  ranks  of  soldiers  bravely  placed  and  lined, 

To  win  for  freedom  one  more  telling  blow. 
There  where  the  tyrant's  tendrils  ceaseless  wind 

The  mighty  newer  man  can  learn  to  throw 
The  iron  hammer  that  at  last  will  worst  the  foe. 

A  story  old  as  earth  this  frantic  plea 

To  win  the  right  to  love  without  high  hand 
Of  ruler  crushing,  killing  fancies  free; 

Told  oft  in  song,   hopes  of  each  gallant  band 
That  stanchly  raised  the  flag  from  land  to  land, 

And  died  in  vain  to  save  the  world  from  shame ; 
Yet    still   before   us    lie    great   gulfs    of    sand, 

Forts  to  storm  that  courage  may  the  same 
Bold  dash  for  victory  make,  the  latest  birth  of  fame. 


52  FREEDOM    ONCE)    MORE 

With  hearts  high-strung  by  salty  ocean  breeze, 

And  spirits  keyed  to  fight  the  worst  of  pain, 
With   aims   as   tall   as    Mariposa's   trees, 

Bathed  in  floods  of  warm  and  silver  rain, 
The  arms  of  Nature  manhood's  sinews  train 

To  struggle  with  the  demon  of  dark  fear, 
While  every  step  is  surer,    truer  gain, 

Against  the  ghouls  that  phantom-like  appear 
To  strike  from  breast  of  coward  man  his  love  most  dear. 

Once   more  the   bell   of   progress  rings  out  clear, 

With  challenge  begging  men  to  live  for  life 
Instead  of  trailing  through  their  passage  here, 

A  constant  fear  of  slow  descending  knife, 
A  shriek  at  every  sign  of  coming   strife. 

'Tis  better  far  to  die  and  gild  one's  tomb, 
Than   weak,    afraid,   to   hide  where  war  is  rife, 

And  fly  to  cover  when  loud  thunders  loom. 
The  warriors  of  the  Western  shores  survive  their  doom. 


IN  HUMILITY'S  VALE  53 


In  Humility's  Vale 

to  give  me  joy,"  the  rich  man  cried, 
No  servants  to  obey  my  fevered  call, 
No   royal    road    with    princely    steeds    to  ride, 
The  desert's  heat  and  sand  this  new  land  wall." 

A  solo  midst  a  million  voices  sounds, 

One  daring  bird  breaks  through  with  lovely  tone, 
A  challenge  to  despair,  a  note  that  bounds 

Into  the  heart   and   proves  it  not  alone. 

A  sudden  glance  from  out  the  pathway  gray 
Of  men   condemned  to  solitude   and  work, 

Reveals  a  garden  naming  all  the  day 
With  flowers  in  whose  depths  the  fairies  lurk. 

Still  haughty,    proud  though  hid  in  humble  vale, 
The  iris  waves  its  petals  white  and  blue, 

The  poppy  hints  at    slumber's  blissful  tale, 
Untamed,  the  rose  a  stranger  is  to  rue. 


54  IN  HUMILITY'S 


The  clang  of  church-bells  sharp  now  cuts  the  air, 
Yon  little  wooden  chapel  greets  a  bride, 

Her  radiant  tread  and  happy  eye-beams  rare, 
An  ecstasy  unknown  to  wealth  and  pride. 

With  thirst  long-parched,  a  rain-drop  nectar  seems. 

The  fog-lost  wanderer  hails  on  bended  knees, 
Revealings  of  sunlight's  kindling  beams, 

And  even  jewels  in  a  candle  sees. 

The  sick  man  shouts  aloud  with  glee  when  pain 
Departs  on  noiseless  wing,  absorbed  in  mist; 

Rich  beauty  glows  for  him  in  every  lane, 
However  poor,    he  seems  by  pleasure  kissed. 

The  laborer  waiting  for  the  rescue  hour, 
When  Fortune  will  extend  her  golden  hand, 

Has  in  his  hoping,   longing  heart  a  power 
Denied  to  king  by  perfumed  breezes  fanned. 


PLANTING  THE  FLAG  55 


Planting  the  Flag 

[y  limbs  all  ache,  my  steps  grow  weary,  slow, 

While  faints  my  heart  with  arduous  tug  and  strain, 
The  valley  whence  I  started  far  below 

The  rocky  height  on  which  I  stand  in  pain; 
And  far  above  all  cloaked  in  gauze  the  fane 

That  I  wTould  reach  seems  out    of  mortal  sight, 
A  summit  that  no  frightened  soul  could  gain. 

An  instant  through  the  clouds  a  point  of  light 
Reveals  the  distant  peak,   then  falls  the  somber  night. 

In  what  mysterious  time  before  my  birth 

Did  I  begin  this  steep  ascent  of  ice  ? 
Or  am  I  one  of  those  whom  men  of  worth 

Have   chosen  for  a  work   above   all  price  ? 
Perhaps  they  take  my  life  for  a  chapter  nice 

Of  the  story  of  the  ages'  mighty  fling 
Towards  self-fulfillment,  their  throw  of  giant  dice 

The   tribes  of    savage   men   towards    peace  to  bring. 
The  centuries  fly  past  on  history's  lightning  wing. 

There  are  many  ways  for  the  poor  old  world  to  die, 

Tyrants,  bigots,  fools  combined  with  sin, 
A  menace  ever  new  the  strong  to  try, 


• 


56  PLANTING  THE  FLAG 

Appal  the  weak  with  their  unceasing  din; 
Like  fish  with  deadly  jaws  and  scaly  fin, 

That  bit  by  bit  encroach  upon  the  shore, 
The  feeble  from  their  forts  of  land  to  win, 

The  ignorant  and  vicious  ever  more, 
Advance  in  rabble  wrath  to  break  through  our  fastened  door. 

Why  then,  there  must  be  some  to  lead  the  fight, 

To  suffer  and  to  climb  though  bruised  and  torn, 
To  mount  on  slipping  glass  to  prove  their  right 

Of  way  and  plant  the  flag  and  blow  the  horn 
Of  truth  on  heights  by  steps  of  men  unworn. 

On  forever  though  the  blood  runs  cold 
And  one  stands  alone  of  human  love  forlorn, 

On,  though  funeral  knells  are  sadly  tolled, 
And  shadows  dark  and  fearful  every  sense  unfold. 

Oh,  no,  I  cannot  go  on,  it  is  too  hard, 

My  blistered  face  shrinks  from  the  beating  sleet, 
My  life  at  center  is  on  its  axis  jarred, 

I  will  go  back,  will  cower  and  retreat. 
Look  down,  the  abyss  sinks  blackly  at  my  feet; 

The  tocsin  sounds  within  my  brain,    a  bell 
With  music's  heavenly  tone  my  soul  to  greet; 

My  flagging  courage  wakens  to  repel 
Alarm,  a  thrill  revives  the  prisoner  in  his  cell. 


PLANTING    THE    FLAG  57 

The  thunderous  heavens  again  an  instant  part, 

The  summit  gleams  much  nearer  than  the  base, 
Proud  Glory's  beams  transcendent,  shining  dart, 

The  darkness  and  the  gloom  with  vim  to  chase 
From    freedom's   lofty  site,  while   leaving  no  trace 

Of  battle  smoke  or  blood  of  vanquished  thieves. 
The  curtain  falls  the  vision  to  efface 

Of  all  the  splendor  that  my  fancy  weaves, 
But  memory  as  a  light  survives  and  death  reprieves. 

The  planets  nearer  are  to  earth,  it  seems, 

Than  this  fair  pinnacle  of  snow  sun-kissed, 
From  where  I  stand  amid  the  twilight  beams, 

Above  the  yawning  gulch  and  torrents  hissed, 
O'er  jagged  rocks  like  furies  in  the  mist. 

Now  peering  down,  oh,   see  the  people  rise, 
The  grandsons  of  a  mighty  past,  their  list 

Is  mightier  yet  the  topmost  goal  to  prize. 
Upward !  for  Liberty    sings  a  song  that  never  dies. 


58  THE  VOICE)   OF  THE   INFANT   DEAD 


The  Voice  of  the  Infant  Dead 

TTThe  night   was  cold  as  prehistoric   ice, 

Before  the  sun  had  touched  to  throbbing  life, 
The   quivering  atoms   made   to   form  a  slice 
Of  God's  great  mystery  hurled  out  to  strife. 

But  wind  full- voiced  like  mammoth  cannon  throats, 
Beat  blustering,  howling  through  the  roofs  and  trees, 

While  Death  and  Thought  and  Time,  our  mortals  boats, 
Swayed  restless  iceberg-tossed  upon  the  breeze. 

I  listened  with  an  ear  to  music  strung, 
To  hear  what  tones  were  played  upon  the  harp 

Of  Nature  sullen,  bleak,  to  night-fays  flung, 
And  insolent  to  men  in  anguish  sharp. 

And  then  I  heard  the  children  cry  and  cry, 
With  wailing  of  a  pain  they  must  express, 

And  every  other  voice  was  stilled,  to  sigh 
With  the  little  souls  forlorn  without  a  dress. 


THE  VOICE    OF  THE    INFANT   DEAD 

Their  motherless  shrieks  rang  out  with  loud  protest, 
Against   their    fate   in   the   lonely   coffin-land, 

While  from  their  shrill  lament,   I  seemed  to  wrest 
The  reason  of  their  flight  from  earth's  chill  strand. 

"I  died,"  one  sobbed,    "because  I  had  no  place 
In  a  home  where  love  had  never  been  a  guest, 

Where  I  was  a  stranger  to  my  mother's  face 
And  thorns  and  brambles  lined  my  cradle-nest." 

"And  I,"  another  cried,   "just  closed  my  eyes, 
Because  I  brought  to  her  who  bore  me,   shame, 

A  girl  betrayed  is  safe  when  her  infant  dies, 
And  takes  from  her  restless  heart,  the  world's  foul  blame. 

A  tiny  voice  like  sap  in  a  tiny  twig, 

On  which  a  daisy  rears  its  modest  head, 
Gave  out  its  plaint  in  sobs  with  suffering  big, 

And  all  the  pain  there  is  in  being  dead. 

"I  died,"  it  piped,   "to  please  Almighty  God, 

Who  wished  my  mother  for  a  sacrifice; 
She  was  so  good,   it  needed  one  more  rod, 

To  prove  her  perfect,   true  beyond  all  price." 


60  THE  VOICE    OF   THE   INFANT   DEAD 

"She  adored  her  child,    of  ardent  love,   the  flower, 

The  exquisite  idea  in  living  guise, 
The  symbol  of  the  great  Eternal  Power, 

Its  dying  father  left  to  her  to  prize. 

"The  human  love  must  be  torn  from  the  human  heart, 
As  flesh  from  flesh  is  rended  by  a  crash 

Of  cavalry  that  die  in  battle-art,— 
The  mother  must  live  her  life  a  blood-red  gash." 

I  could  not  sleep  for  the  sound  of  the  baby  yells, — 
The   little,    little  ones  so  soon  reclaimed, 

From  a  world  that  commenced  for  them  with  funeral  knells, 
To  wander  even  as  phantoms  sadly  maimed. 

But  then  on  the  winds  of  night  so  weird  and  fierce, 
There  rang  a  cry  more  dismal,    fearful  yet, — 

The  mothers  of  the  infant  dead  must  pierce 

Through  death  for  payment  of  their  cypress  debt. 

They  walk  apart  amid  the  festive  crowds, 
These  women  with  empty  arms  and  sterile  breasts; 

Do  they  hear  like  me  in  the  stormy  winds  and  clouds, 
The  baby  voices  whose  wailing  never   rests? 


THE  WELCOME   OF   THE  FLOWERS  61 


The  Welcome  of  the  Flowers 

/TThe  line  of  sea  and  sand, 

That  forms  the  northern  band 
Of  the  city  straggling  toward  the  water's  waste, 

Is  broken  rock  and  weed, 
An  edge   without  a  seed, 

No  tree  or  plant  or  gem  of  man  there  placed, 
To  prove  that  Neptune's  damp,    fond  kiss 

Is  meant  to  stir  the  earth  to  beauty  drowned  in  bliss. 

How  dull   both  sea  and  earth, 

In  such  a  frigid  dearth 
Of  tendril  growths  of  vine  that  cling  and  climb, 

Of  pomp  and  shouting  roar 
Of  mighty  ocean  hoar. 

My  eyes  so  sore  without  a  view  sublime, 
I  closed,   then  looked  once  more 

To  see  what  mighty  robes  of  green  the  mud-banks  wore. 


THE   WELCOME   OF   THE  FLOWERS 

Then  springing  into   sight, 

As  from  an  inward  light, 
A  thousand  flowers  burst  upon  my  gaze. 

To  me  the  chorus   spoke, 
My    senses   thrilled   and   woke, 

I  listened  with  an  ear  and  head  adaze. 
"You  seem  to  be  quite  strange,"  they  cried, 

"As  if  you  all  our  rare  rich  charm  had  long  defied." 

The  buttercup  in  gold, 

Its  yellow  mazes  rolled, 
Amid  the  emerald  grass  whose  diamond  dew 

Was   dancing  in  the  wind. 
The  strawberry  vines  down  pinned 

The  lupin  petals  veined  in  white  and  blue. 
While  shy,  thin  ferns  just  peeped  above 

Concealing  greens  and  reds,  and  whispered,  soft:  "I  love!" 

A  daisy  raised  its  voice, 

And  said:     "Come,  make  your  choice; 
If  you  but  knew,  this  is  the  fairies'  bower; 

The  children's  perfect  home, 
Where  merrily  they  roam, 


THE  WELCOME  OF   THE   FLOWERS  63 

i 
And  learn  God's  truth  from  every  nodding  flower. 

No  evil  would  they  ever  meet 
If  content  they  rested  nestled  safe  in  our  retreat. 

A  clover  leaf  just  stirred, 

And  quivered  like  a  bird, 
And  murmured  softly  to  my  heart:    "Come  here! 

You   thought  no  beauty  lay 
In  all  the  western  day;" 

Reproachfully,    it  sighed,   and  held  my  ear, 
'"Tis  true,  we  are  near  the  ugly  shore, 

But  still  we  boast  a  face  of  joy  and  teach  sweet  lore. ' ' 

Responsively  I  stood, 

A  giant  in  a  wood 
So  small  I  could  have  trampled  it  to  dust. 

My  soul  was  touched  to  life, 
And  soothed  all  inward  strife. 

The  hope   and  love  divine  I  now  could  trust 
If  thus  I  found  its  gleam  revealed, 

With  perfume  piercing  rare  in  this  wild  humble  field. 

"My   little  friends,"   I  moaned, 
While  tears  within  me  groaned, 


64  THE   WELCOME   OF   THE   FLOWERS 

"How  have  I  lived  so  long  without  your  aid? 

A  shining  buttercup, 
In  my  hand,   I  lifted  up, 

And  pressed  it  to  my  lips,  its  wet  face  laid 
Against  my  fevered,   burning  cheek. 
"No  more  I'll  wander  far,"  I  cried,  "or  strange  gods  seek." 

I  gathered  hundreds  more, 

From  the   lavish   store, 
And   wrapped  them  in  the  sparkling  ribbon  grass, 

To  adorn  my  study  cold. 
Ah  !    they  were  no  longer  bold, 

But  faintly  called  me  back  to  their  old  pass 
Of  meadow-land  unkempt,   forlorn 

Where  first  their  beauty  on  my  naked  sight  was  born. 


COWARDICE   AND    COURAGE  05 


Cowardice  and   Courage 

/Tfhe  day  hung    listless  o'er  a  city    dead, 

All  numb  and  cold  with  sense  of  fruitless  aim, 
The  people  walked  with  heavy,   sodden  tread, 

And  bowed  their  heads  with  droop  of  futile  shame. 

The  black  smoke  curled  against  the  threatening  sky, 

As  if  abysmal  fires  of  earth,   unborn, 
Strove  hard  to  burst  their  bonds  and  upward  fly, 

Black  cinders  hurling  to  deface  the  morn. 

With  conscience  trembling,    yet  too  weak  to  cry, 
The  feeble  wondered  why  this  life  was  hard, 

They  begged  they  knew  not  what  with  useless  sigh, 
While  tangled  thoughts  confused  their  foreheads  marred. 

I  walked  the  streets  whose  stones  of  sooty  gray, 

L,ike  glacier  ice  my  tired   feet  restrained, 
And  in  the  salty  breeze  of  the  limp,  dull  day, 

The  bird  of  beauty  from  love  high-sung,    refrained. 


66  COWARDICE   AND    COURAGE 

A  vacant  field    around   me    everywhere, 

Yet  my  spirit  reached  abroad   like  an  empty  hook, 

To  catch  the  flying  thought  that  pierced  the  air, 
The  life  that  lives  for  those  with  eyes  that  look. 

And  lo !    while  yet  I  wandered    seeking   high, 
The   thin,  aerial    thing   that    makes  a  thought, 

Pale    Cowardice  slunk  with  footsteps  nerveless,  sly, 
And  hid  his  head  as  one  who  shrinks  to  nought. 

Why  misery  is  a  fairer  growth,  I  mused, 

As  he  disappeared  like  powder  that  dissolves, 

While  on  my  mind  no  image  clear  was  fused, 
Just  fancy's  form  that  on  itself  revolves. 

I  walked  a  few  steps  more,    my   heart   hopes  strung 
From  sadness,  leaping  forth  to  greet  a  light; 

Oh !    look !    proud  Courage    on    my   vision  flung, 
A  ray  as  white  as  the  sun  that    shines  at  night. 

Did  Courage  stride  like  a  knight  in  armor  clad, 
With  face  clear-cut  as  steel  and  waving  crest? 

Ah !    no !    the   gleam    that   lit    his    eyes   was    sad, 
And  with    no   laurel    wreath  was  his  helmet  dressed. 


COWARDICE   AND    COURAGE  07 

It  is  not  really  brave  to  lead  the  fight, 
When  trumpets  cheer  with   loud    applause  and  roar, 

When  electric  in  the  breeze  love's  banners  bright, 
And  blessings  from  the  very  sky  downpour. 

Not  thus  my    man  of   courage  beamed  towards  me, 

But  from  ice-heights  of  solitude  and  pain, 
From  a  face  all  lined  and  laced,  by  struggle  free 

Of  self-contempt, — sublime  in  anguish  strain. 

The  day  now  glistened  with  a  lustre  new, 
The  throb  of  something  real  had  hit  my  mind, 

The  grisly  clouds  divided  into  blue, 
And  taught  me  there  a  mirrored  hope  to  find. 

Poor  Cowardice    passed  me  by  unknown,  downcast, 
While   living  glowed  in  strong   and   white   relief, 

The  head  of  Courage  bold  in  tones  that  last ; — 
I  thanked  my  Maker  for  the  sweet  relief. 


SENTIMENT 


Sentiment 

|ne  of  the  saddest  things  that  life  can  hold, 

Is  to  find  on  the  edge  of  late,  believing  youth, 
While  the  heart  still  beats  with  wistfulness  untold, 
That  beauty  lingers  nowhere  near  the  truth. 

The   world  at  last  when    illusion's  veil  is  torn, 

Is  but  a  book  of   unillumined  prose, 
While   loyal    love   is   but  a  garment   worn 

In  fancy  to  protect  a  child  from  foes. 

A  wafer  of  fine-blown  feeling  must  belong 

To  maids  whose  eyes  are  limpid  as  the  sky, — 

So  yearns  the  ardent  youth    for   Psyche's  song, 
And  sentiment    that    lives    to   kiss  or  die. 

And  yet  a  face  can  lie  with  devil's  vim, 
Base  sordid    hopes    behind    the    subtle  myth, 

Of  what  had  seemed  as  fair  as  an  angel's  hymn; 
And  crumbling  black  decay  of  joy  the  pith. 


SENTIMENT 

But  as  youth's  first  deep  blush  begins  to  fade, 
To    the    softened  tint  of   later  summer    days, 

And    ashes    pale   just    smoulder    in    passion's   raid, 
The    ideal    long-lost  will  vibrate  in  the  haze. 

Ivike  filings  thin  of  finest    hammered  gold, 
So  light  they  ride  at  ease  the  sunbeam's  back, 

There  comes  a  sentiment  our  souls  to  mould, 
To  firmer  grasp  of  what   they    dreamed  a  lack. 

How  all  the  atmosphere  of    mental  life 

Is  tinged  with  something  shining,    warm  and  sweet, 
While  waves  of  sound  with  whispering  love  are  rife, 

And  existence  is  no  more  a  dull,    old  cheat ! 

But  where  does  it  come  from  and  where  its  heart, 
This  zephyr  of  the  things  that  ought  to  be, 

This  trembling  of  the  exquisite,  and  dart, 

Of    spangled    dragon-fly   in    youth's  dead  tree? 

Oh,  not  in  the   wafted  perfume  of  a  rose, 
Nor  where   the   violets    hide  in  ecstatic  grace, 

Nor  where  the  marigolds  in  sunlight  doze, 

Nor  where  the  passion-flower  intrudes  its  face! 


70  SENTIMENT 

Oh,    do   not   seek   to   find   its   secret   cell, 
But   linger  gratefully  beneath  its  wings, 

The  happy  subject  of  a  mystic  spell, 
Who  even  to  a  moment's  rapture   clings! 

And  in  experience's  vision   large  and  wide, 

Is  not  rare  sentiment  itself  a  power? 
And  love  a  blossom  fairer   than   all   pride, 

Though  late  and  dark  its  birth,  and  short  its  hour? 

Though  in  the  death-damps  of  a  life  that  failed, 
Or  behind  a  face  with  palsy's  horror  grim, 

The  heart   you   cannot   buy  has  to  you  sailed, 
On  sapphire  seas  no  later  storm  can  dim. 

If  one,  at   last   made  whole,    can   lightly   fly, 
From  youth's  long  sickness  in  a  marsh  of  pain, 

To  a  peace  beyond  the  fear  of  those  who  die, 
Then  why  not  wait   the  hidden  realm  to  gain? 


FROM   BEYOND    THE   TOMB  71 


From  Beyond  the  Tomb 

/Tfall  Nerin  at  the  feet 

Of  Phyllis    in  her   retreat 
Of  ivy-trellised  bower  in  the  shade 

Of  elm  and  maple-tree, 
Could  nothing  ugly  see 

Between  his  rapturous  love  and  that  sweet  maid 
Who  turned  her  violet,  love-kissed   eyes 

To  him  and  shot  a  thrilling  look  just  tempered,  wise. 

No  palsy  of  remorse 

Restrained  him  from  his  course. 
His  rival   Dallis  mouldered   in  the  grave, 

As  helpless  in  his  shroud 
As  a  moving  summer  cloud, 

Whose  snowy  streamers    just  one  moment  wave 
Across  the  azure  of  the  day, 

Then  disappear,  dissolve,  to  perfect  light  give  way. 


72  FROM    BEYOND    THE    TOMB 

Young  Dallis  too  had  knelt 

Before  the  girl  and  felt 
A  throb  as  strong,  a  joy  as  compelling  fond 

As  Nerin's  own  delight. 
In  lovers'  modest  plight 

Of  fear  before  the  virgin's  dazzling  wand 
Of  beauty  warm  yet  pure  as  ice, 

He  asked  his  friend  to  probe  her  heart,  his  own  too  nice. 

But  Nerin  knew  too  well 

Just  how  the  balance  fell 
In  the  scales  fine-wrought  where  Phyllis  weighed  the  two. 

A  millionth  of  a  grain, 
Just  for  his  artist  brain, 

And  the  scale  had  tipped   for  Dallis'  chance,  a  view 
That    filled  the   rival's    eyes  with  spleen. 

He  lied,  and  Dallis,  wounded,  left  this  mortal  scene. 

And  now  in  listening  mood, 

She  sat  as  Nerin  wooed, 
And    fancied  him  the  only  one  who  cared, — 

The  one  whom  fate  assigned 
For  her  in  bliss  to  bind 

Unto  her  life,  with  garlands  love-ensnared, 


FROM   BEYOND    THE    TOMB  73 

I/ike  the  passion-vine  in  summer-flower 

That  twines  about  a  window-edge  with  perfume  power. 

No  tremor  in  his  heart, 

No  guilty,   sickening  dart 
Of  conscience  lurking  to  attack  its  prey, 

Withheld  the  living  man 
From  rapture's  perfect  span 

Within  her  arms,  and    he  leapt  to  catch  the  ray 
Of  answering  love  aflame  at  last. 

But  as  he  yearned  towards  her,  he  saw  her  face  o'ercast. 

Before   his  lips  had  met 

Her  own  so  dewy  wet 
With  springs  of  youth  unused,  she  sprang  away, 

And  shrieked  in  anguish  tone 
And  prayed  to  be  awhile  alone. 

'  'See  Dallis    conies, ' '  she  cried,  '  'his  fingers  fay 
Have   caught    my  strands  of   hair.     He  clasps 

His  bony  arms  about  me,  and  all  my  being  grasps." 

Remorse  now  like  a  snake 

L/ong-coiled  but  at  last  awake, 


74  FROM    BEYOND  THE   TOMB 

Went  hissing  through  bold  Nerin's  frightened  brain. 

The  murder  called  for  light, 
It  swung  to  human  sight, 

Right  to  the  eyes  he  wished  to  shield  from  pain. 
The  hideous  truth  had  flown  with  wings 

From  its  hiding-place  of  death  to  her  with  poison  stings. 

He  crouched  and  left  her  side, 

Afraid  to  see  the  ghost  divide 
Once  more  sweet  Phillis  from  her  sinning  swain. 

She  hardly  seemed  to  note 
His  going  in  this  strange  float 

To  the  spirit-world,  where  dead  men  walk  and  deign 
Their  mortal  sorrow  to  express, 

And  all  the  unwept  tears  of  life's  brief,   bitter  stress. 

The  spirit  took  his  place 

At  her  feet  as  if  to  race, 
Against  the  man  of  flesh  in  terror  fled; 

Then  spoke  in  sounds  so  soft 
They  seemed  from  up  aloft 

A  whisper  that  is  dreamt  not  heard,  then  sped 
To  vibrate  in  her  inner  ear. 

"I  loved  you  best,"  he  said,  "and  sought  for  you  the  bier." 


FROM    BEYOND    THE    TOMB  75 

And  then  poor  Phyllis  knew 

To  her  sad  heart's  great  rue, 
How  one  had  died  for  her  and  one  had  killed. 

The  one  who  lived  was  wrong, 
Now  silent  her  heart's  love-song. 

The  widow's  endless  grief  her  bosom  filled. 
She  stretched  her  hand  to  touch  the  ghost, 

But  in  the  sighing  wind  she  was  a  lonely  host. 

Revenge  from  beyond  the  tomb, 

Had  made  eternal  gloom, 
For  Phyllis  in  the  garden  of  her  youth. 

The  eyes  no  longer  kissed 
By  hopes  of  love's  sweet  tryst, 

Turned  wan  with  light  reflected  from  the  truth, 
Where  love  is  simply  what  we  dream, 

And  hate  endures  beyond  the  Styx'  cold  deadly  stream. 


76  THB   WOOING    OF   THE   URN 


The  Wooing  of  the  Urn 

|ometimes  amid  the  blaze  of  desert  days 

When  hot  October  suns  dry-scorch  the  hills, 
A  mirage  deep-blue  upon  my  vision  plays, 

And  vaguely,  sweetly  drugged,  my  being  thrills. 

When    anguish    flings  aside  its  futile  strain, 
Repelling  all  the  world  of  hideous  sin, 

While  hope  despondent   sinks  upon  the  wane, 

These  scenes  from  long-dead  years  my  spirits  win. 

The  blue  an  indigo  of  twilight  sky, 
When  day  and  night  meet  in  a  fleeting  kiss, 

Just  pierces  through  the  timid  trees  where  sigh 

The  winds  divorced  from  day's  long  brilliant  bliss. 

Then  through  the  velvet  dimness  of  deep  shades, 
A  weird,  fond   whiteness    grows  in  frank  outline, 

And  of  the  matchless  scene  the  glamour  aids, — 
A  marble  urn  my  piercing  eyes  define. 


THE   WOOING   OF   THE   URN  77 

What  ashes  of  a  mighty  soul  are  sealed, 

Within  this  little  tomb  that  speaks  to  me? 
Will  the  centuries'   mystic  secrets  be  revealed 

And  buried  Rome  yet  struggle  to  be  free? 

You  died  without  one  last,  deep,  vital  word ; 

No  kindred  soul  was  there  to  give  an  ear: 
Some   passion   still   in    death    relentless  has   stirred, 

Because  I  come  with  heart  to  shed  a  tear. 

And  yet  it  cannot  speak  but  in  a  throb 

That  knows  of  love  the  old,    sweet  trembling  art: 

Only  an  urn  in  a  blue  mirage,  yet  a  sob 
Breaks  through  the  mouldering  dust  to  touch  my  heart. 

The  blistering  sand  and  storm  of  the  desert  rain, 

Efface  my  sliding,  shimmering  astral  view: 
I  am  here  mid  all  the  Western  heat  and  strain: 

While  he  has  gone  who  all  my  senses  drew. 

The  sultry  days  and  weeks  aud  years  still  sear, 

The  common  things  remain,  the  subtle  go, 
And  ugliness  thrusts  out  its  maw  so  near, 

No  zephyr  of   the   dead    can  to  me  blow. 


78  THE   WOOING    OF   THE   URN 

Ah !    then   once   more   the   purple   darkness   parts; 

The  wafer  of  an  ancient  loveliness 
Just   breaks  upon    my   burning    eyes  and  starts 

My  hopes  fast  spinning  from  our  mortal  stress. 

Again    the   urn    against   the    velvet    blue, 

So  white  it  seems  like  sheen  on  fabulous  pearl. 

Oh,  ashen  fragment  of  a  soul  of  rue, 

In  the  ether  can  you  yet  a  thought  unfurl? 

What  whisper  is  that  I  fondly  seem  to  hear? 

Can  a  word    come    forth    from    centuries  of   grave? 
A  tone  ecstatic  breaks  upon  my  ear, — 

It  is  love  that  murmurs  on  the  long  sound-wave ! 

You  waited  for  my  heart,  oh,  ancient  dust, 

And  pierced  to  me  through  all  your  marble  doom: 

Then  shall  I  in  my  blank  despair,  yet  trust 
The  flower  of  immortality  will  bloom? 


THK  APPEAL  79 


The  Appeal 


foung  I/eonard  stood  alone  on  wind-swept  cape 
Sharp  jutting   towards   the  sea's   onrushing  tide, 
Surrounded  by  a  solitude  so  dense 
It  seemed    the    earth   rolled   back   ten    million    years, 
That  he  might  see  it  once  again  quite  new, 
Unsullied   by   the   manuscript   of    God 
Or  man.     The  wind,  inhuman,    harsh  and  wild, 
Beat,    cold,  salt    spray   against    his  quivering  cheek. 
No  comrade  shot  a  glance  of   pain  or  love 
To  prove  the  human  heart  vibrated  still 
With    music   like  a  tender   chime   at   dawn 
That  peals  to  show  the  night  is  but  a  dream, 
The  dark  a  sickness  in  a  brain  too  small, 
To  glow  with  lights  from  sublimity's  own  sun. 
In  such  a  solitude  to  him  remained 
The  power  of  thought  that   tried    its  way  to  burn 
Across  the  ocean's  cold  and  gray  expanse, 
And  backwards  where  the  land  all  sluggish  lay 
In  silent  sadness  hiding  from  the  sky. 
He  thought  of  all  his  youth's  frustrated  hope, 
And  stifled  with  the  weight  of  memory's  load. 
He  had  strectched  his  arms  towards  love  as  a  dying  child 
Who  yearned  to  sink  upon  its  mother's  breast: 


80  THE   APPEAR 

He   had    cried   aloud    in    his    aching,    hungry  soul, 

As  a  starving  beggar  shrieks  outside  the  gates 

Of  Paradise,  fast    locked  against  his  prayer. 

But    no   love   came.     Around    him    everywhere, 

The  hosts  of  evil  seemed  to  reign  supreme, 

And    malice   like  a  plague  whose  scourge  of  black, 

Draws  to  the  grave  the  fairest  and  the  best, 

Made  foul  men's  thoughts  with  hate  and  shame  and  lust. 

A  wild  war-cry  from  some  long-buried  time 

When  his  fathers'  fathers  fought  in  border  strife 

And  plunged  the  knife  and  hurled  the  lance  to  kill, 

Oft  murmured  in  his  ears:    "You  conquer  here." 

Obedient,    inspired,    he    took    the  field, 

And  put   his   helmet   on,    advancing   bold. 

The  foe,  like  myriad  grains  of    floating  chaff, 

Or  pollen  that  from  a  flower's  heart  swings  out 

To  ride  upon  the  breeze,    escaped  his  blade. 

Too  light  and  insecure  to  fight  themselves, 

In  very  feebleness  combined    and  swift, 

They  could  defy  his  strong,   straight  manhood's  aim. 

Ivike  a  fine  Arabian  steed  of  blood  and  nerve, 

He  dashed  across  the  burning,    arid  plain, 

And  found  he  raced  but  with  himself  on  fire; 

While  smaller  men  but  stood  aside  and  smiled, 

To  see  the  fury  of  his  headlong  pace. 

As  cinders  dropped  from  a  locomotive's  track, 

They  fled  from  beneath  his  feet  and  fell  apart, 


THE  APPEAL,  81 

Unconquered  and  not  dead,  yet  useless  quite. 

A  pain    so   great   that   living  was  a  death, 

Seized  heart  and  brain:  poor  Leonard  looked  and  looked. 

With  eyes  that  ached  like  living  coals  down  tossed 

In  boiling  chasms  of  the  nether  earth, 

And  wondered  what  it  all  could  mean  or  be. 

The  seething  surf  vouchsafed  no  cooling  draught 

Of  knowledge  to  his  parching  forehead's  front: 

The  sky  remained  a  blank  of  staring  blue 

Whose  vastness  long- searched  but  made  him  feel  more  blind. 

He  could  not  die  and  toss  the  riddle  back 

To  where  so  long  it  had  hugged  its  mystery  grim. 

He  did  not  know.     Did  they  know  more  than  he 

Those  people  who  had  lived,  then  gone  away 

Like  a  drop  of  perfume,   absorbed,   dissolved,   dispersed 

Into   the  all-embracing  air ;  a  tone 

Now  heard,  now  lost  in  silence's  baffling  hold. 

Could  he  appeal  to  something  High,  Sublime, 

And  pray  for  force  to  penetrate  the  cloud 

Of  doubt  that  loomed  so  black  upon  the  land? 

Should  he  pray  ?  To  whom  ?  To  what  ?  Young  Leonard  fought 

Once  more  with  darkness'  shadow  in  his  heart. 

Then  raised  a  voice  that,    pure  from  passion's  infamy, 

Its  strains  of  earnest  pain  sent  wailing  up 

To  the  vacant  Heaven  where  no  star  hung  its  light, 

Or  spelled   for  him  in  rays  a  signal  code. 

How  many  times  he  had  called  on  human  aid, 


82  THE  APPEAL, 

And  called  in    vain  !     A  boatman  in  a  storm, 

"Give  me  a  rope;   you  see  I  sink  to  death," 

He  had  cried,  but  they  ran  the  other  way,   unmoved. 

And  now  he  cried  aloud  to  he  knew  not  what. 

One  moment  there  lay  upon  his  spirit  awed, 

A    sanctity,    a  fright,  — and  nothing  came. 

Then  backward  rolled  the  curtain  of  the  clouds, 

And  trembling,    fine,   ethereal,    came  a  light. 

The  veil  upon  his  straining  eyes  blew  back, 

And  all  the  sea  and  sky  gleamed  glorious,  white. 

The  mists  in  filmy  shapes  of  joy  divine, 

Performed  for  him  a  wondrous,   mystic  play. 

The  theatre  of  the  universe  revealed 

To  him  the  magic  of  a  thousand  dreams. 

His  heart  beat  now  with  ecstasy  new-born, 

As  in  the  perfect  calm  of  silver  sheen, 

On   crystal  waters    gleaming  in  the  sun, 

And  in  the  trillion  lights  that  lit  the  sky, 

He  saw  a  great  archangel  bending  down 

In  pity,  love  and  tenderness  divine, 

To  prove  one  could  not  cry  to  God  in  vain. 

And  rapture  flooded  through  his  bursting  soul, 

To  feel  that  mighty  presence  in  the  void, 

To  know  that  o'er  the  spent  and  wasteful  earth, 

The  great  stars  watch  in  ever  brooding  love, 

While  somewhere  in  the  great  eternal  Heart, 

The  beautiful  truth  sings  its  ecstatic  song. 


THE  LEAP  83 


The  Leap 


JTfhe  circus  tent  yawned  large  and  deep  and  wide, 
The  wind-blown  canvas  bellowed  like  the  tide 
That  hurls  the  plashing  waves  upon  the  beach 
And    threatens  the    far  reserves  of  land  to  reach. 
No  volcano  mouth  with  liquid  lava  red 
Appeared  a  ring  of   lower  hell    so  dread 
As  this  amusement  field  to  the  brave  young  boy 
Who  risked  his  life  to  make  a  novel  toy 
For  jaded  men  who  liked  to  look  at  death, 
And  sons  of  wealth,   who  trembling,   caught  their  breath, 
And  cried  aloud  in  rapture's  tingling  thrill, 
With  clapping  hands  and  voices  hoarse  and  shrill, 
When  the  acrobat  took  his  famous  flying  leap, 
From  swing  to  swing  across  the  pavilion  steep. 
Each  time  he  poised  upon  the  tall  trapeze, 
So  high  above  the  crowd  he  aimed  to  please, 
He    seemed  a  fly  that  walked  the  mighty  dome 
Of  a  church    uplifted  towards  the  skies  of  Rome, 


84  THE   LEAP 

Or  a    bird  that  weary  of  the  nether  air, 

Flies  through  the  clouds,    to  the  human  eye  a  glare; 

He  wondered  even  while  his  brain  was  cold, 

How  it  would  be  if  he  should  lose  his  hold, 

And  dizzy  with  a  thought  beyond  control, 

Should  fall  to  earth  and  render  up  his  soul, 

To  the  multitude  whose  holiday  he  made. 

A  shiver  o'er  his  tempered  spirit  played, 

As  he  thought   he    stood   alone   in    danger's  risk, 

Until  one  day  across  his  work's  dark  disk, 

There  came  the  vision  of  an  equal  strain, 

Of  one  more  firmly  yoked  than  he  to  pain. 

The  soldier  condemned  to  make  a  swamp  his  home, 

Where  creatures  of  the  fetid    night-marsh  roam, 

And  malaria  living  in  a  million  germs, 

Like  a  colossal    demon  with  no  terms 

Of  friendliness  or  peace,   makes  torment  hell, 

Forever  heard  within  his  ears  the  knell 

Of  death  approaching   swift   with   horrid  mien, 

While  in  his  quivering  heart  hard  duty  keen, 

Still    thrust    him  forward   regardless   how   high-priced. 

A  rustle  of  moving  feet  his  nerve-ends  sliced, — 

There  was  a  murmur  in  the  pampas  grass, 


THE   LEAP  85 

As  if  a  troop  of  horse  had  cut  a  pass, 

Through  jungle  water's  slime  to  take  the  fort 

The  soldier  held  alone  while  Moros  sought 

In  vain  the  flag  from  its  uplifted  place  to  tear. 

He  leapt  to  seize  his  gun,   his  face  a  flare 

Of  patriot's  passion  ready  to  advance 

And  meet  the  savage  foe  with   shot  and  lance. 

The  murmur  died,  the  whispering  weeds  grew  still, 

In  suspense  once  more  he  watched  beneath  the  hill. 

He  had  not  died  this  time,    but  still  lived  on, 

To  wait,   to  leap,  to  greet  the  fate  so  wan, 

The  black-faced  warriors  hold   for  the   soldier  white. 

And  still  he  wondered  in  the  damp,  hot  night, 

If  he  stood  alone  upon  the  gruesome  verge, 

Where  perils  round  the  lonely  fighter  surge. 

He  wondered  until  one  day  there  met  his  gaze, 

A  man  fast  locked  within  a  deeper  maze. 

The  priest,   like  alabaster,  white  and  pale 
From  fasting  long  and  flaggellation's  ail, 
Stood  trembling  in  his  temple  on  the  height 
Of  Himala3-a's  mountains  snow-clad  light, 
While  from  the  valley  down  below  there  rose 
The  mighty  chorus  of  a  world's  sad  woes. 


86  THE   IvKAP 

"Oh,  lead  us  master,  to  the  shrine  of  God, 

We  wander  lost  amid  the  groves  of  sod", 

They  cried  in  helpless  pleading  on  their  knees, 

Their  sobs  in  dismal  wailing  like  storm-tossed  seas, 

That   work  a  thousand  horrid  wrecks,   yet  sigh 

To  see  the  pallid  corpses  their  waves  toss  high. 

What  could  he  say  to  guide  their  souls  aright, 

To  make  the  earth  of  Heaven  a  mirror  bright? 

They  hung  upon  the  word  he  had  to  give, 

To  him  they  looked  for  power  and  hope  to  live: 

One  word  that  lacked  the  nicest  choice  of  soul, 

Might  send  them  all  on  downward,  backward  roll, 

To  Stygian  nights  of  the  world's  first  spring 

From  chaos  to  life  beneath    the    devil's  wing. 

How  could  he  leap  to  give  the  fatal  word, 

When  Immensity  itself  his  bosom  stirred? 

His   heart  all  strangling  in  a  mortal  pain, 

Seemed  powerless  a  mighty  crowd  to  train. 

The  panorama  of  the  world  revealed, 

Before  him  lay  like    a  mammoth  book  unsealed. 

Should  he  dare  to  read  to  them  the  written  page, 

With  voice  commanding  take  the  stage, 

Or  die  while  yet  the  word  hung  on  his  breath, 


THE    IvKAP  87 

And  courage  grown  too  strong  but  wooed  dread  death? 
"And  if  I  do  not  speak,   they  die,"   he  mused, 
While  on  his  sight  the  myriad  lights  were  fused. 
His  soul  in  anguish  braced  to  make  the  dive 
Into  the  chasm  where  men  in  midnight  strive. 
He  took  the  leap   from  earth   far-swung  in   space, 
And  turned  to  suffering  men  in  distraught   face. 

In  the  mighty  wheel  of  time;    there  is  no  end, 

For  still  in  tents,  the  acrobat's  forces  spend, 

Their  strength  in  giddy  risk  to  please  the  gay; 

And  still  the  soldier  guards  the  perilous  way 

Where   human    vultures  leap  upon  their  prey, 

And  try  to  crush  the  flag  of  honest  day. 

And  still  within  his  lonely  marble  gloom, 

Were  unseen  spirits  darkling  ever  loom, 

The  priest  keeps  watch  o'er  souls  of  frightened  hosts, 

And  leaps  across  the  brink  of  rock-bound  coasts. 


88  THE  VISION  OF  THE  KEY 


The  Vision  of  the  Key 

e  young  monk  turned  and  tossed  on  his  narrow  bed, 
While  burnt  unceasing  in  his  aching  brain, 
The  flames  of  madness  that  the  sleepless  know. 
He  pondered  on  the  mystery  called  night, 
That  pall  of  nothingness  where  souls  go  out 
Of  being,  in  slumber  dead  as  in  their  graves ; 
Unconscious  as  a  pool  of  shadowed  brook 
That  lies  so  deep  between  a  cavern's  walls, 
No  eye  of  man  can  seek  a  mirror  there, 
No  lips  of  man  can  there  assuage  a  thirst, 
The  sleepers  pass  one-half  the  precious  time, 
That  God  has  given  for  the  search  of  truth. 
As  sometimes  a  shooting  star  bursts  through  the  air, 
A  moment  flashing  on  the  gaze  surprised, 
Or  as  sometimes  from  memory's  attic  store, 
The  sudden  wind  sweeps  all  the  dust  away, 
And  shows  one  ancient  gem  bright  sparkling  there, 
So  to  him  came  a  thought  like  comet's  gleam. 
He  would  trample  under  foot  the  slothful  night, 
And  straining,  striving  while  his  comrades  slept, 


THE  VISION  OF  THE  KEY 

Would  seek  to  read  aright  the  legend  strange 

Of  the  soft  sweet  death  men  die  at  midnight's  chime. 

He  vowed  no  thing  of  sense  should  clog  his  view  ; 

And  cast  from  out  his  tiny  cell   of  prayer, 

The  image  of  the  Savior's  thorn-crowned  head, 

The    chiseled  ivory    cross  a  pope   had   blessed , 

The  Bible  with  all  its  songs  of  holy  balm  ; 

While  from  the  chambers  of  his  brain,    he  cast, 

The  sweetest  thought  his  soul  had  ever  known, 

The  love  he  bore  the  aged  priest  to  whom 

He  owed  his  entrance  through  the  marble   gates 

To  the  knowledge  palace  pure  wherein  he  dwelt. 

A  thought  too  sweet,    though  of  the  soul's  own  lace, 

Might  soothe  the  fierceness  of  his  troubled  nights, 

And  tempt  him  to  forego  his  piercing  search. 

Now  strangely  giddy  in  his   flight  of  mind, 

He  seemed  to  feel  old  Nature  but  a  hoax, 

A  little  game  invented  for  a  child  ; 

For  gravity  reversed  its  changeless  laws, 

He  looked,  and  saw  with  eyes  that  burned  through  space, 

His  own  pale  image  flying  through  the   air  ! 

No  bird  that  ever  spread  its  wings  out  wide 

To  fly  from  snow  and  ice  to  lands  of  bliss, 


90  THE  VISION  OF  THE  KEY 

Could  cleave  with  ease  so  perfect  and  so  free, 

The  stretches  of  the  boundless  lifting  sky, 

As  he,    released   from  bondage  on  his  bed. 

To  seek  new  truths  concealed  from  those  who  sleep. 

And  ever  as  he  swept  aerial,  light 

A  thousand  miles  a  second  through  the  blue 

Of  the  night  which  throbbed  to  win  a  friend  so  pure, 

He  saw  beside  him,  swinging  like  himself, 

Without  a  thread  to  hold  it  to  the  earth, 

Or  cord  or  beam  to  attach  it  to  the  sky, 

A  key  of  brass  that  larger  and  larger  seemed, 

The  more  he  looked  upon  its  shining  stem. 

He  longed  to  call  in  revel  of  ecstacy, 

To  the  priest  he  loved  but  had  banished  from  his  heart, 

"My  father,  we  tremble  on  the  brink  of  life, — 

The  night  is  dead: — and  is  born  again  on  High, 

We  shall  know  at  last  the  secrets  of  the  sky, — 

The  key  unlocks  for  us  the  mystery 

That  so  long  has  kept  men  prostrate  in  the  dark. 

We  enter  in,  just  you  and  I,  dear  heart." 

Still   farther  through  the  air  he  soared  until 

He  seemed  to  hear  the  orchestra  of  Heaven, 


THE  VISION  OF  THE  KEY  91 

A  music  so  divine  its  lovely  thrill 

Was  like  a  swoon;  and  nearer  he  approached 

To  the  stairs  of  pearl  shot  through  with  opal  lights. 

One  moment  more,  the  door  would  be  revealed, 

His  outstretched  hands  just  touched  the  burnished  key. 

Then  cold  and  gray  from  out   the  eastern  hills, 

The  sad,   pale  dawn  began  once  more  its  round, 

And  the  monk  saw  but  his  frigid,   empty  cell. 

While  with  the  stir  of  the  waking  world  alert 

To  duty's  painful  tasks  of  sightless  souls, 

There  flamed  o'er  all  his  pallid  cheek  a  blush  ; 

For  Heaven  itself  had  bowed  to  tempt  his  heart 

To  too  much  joy!    For  himself  and  the  one  he  loved 

The  perfect  stairs  as  white  as  ice,   yet  live 

With  myriad  rainbow  beams  of  celestial  fire. 

"I  ran  from  every  sense  of  joy,"  he  wept, 

"Then  drunken  reeled  at  Heaven's  great  beauty   throne." 

When  kneeling  to  his  priest  at  prayer  that  day, 

He  murmured  nothing  of  the  magic  key, 

But  simply  begged  for  some  hard  work  to  do. 


' 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 


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FEE  10 1920 

NOV  101920 


YB   12156 


162710 


a-a<L€. 


